It was written on the creases of your palms,

in the violet runes of nascent dawn,

the solitary light adrift in the fog,

the remembrance—in a world of Relativism—of right and wrong


It was a wave of music coursing through your veins,

a lone white swan upon the Thames,

a heart in the steam on your window pane,

the unintended wisdom our children say.


It was the secret message in the stucco on your wall,

fond memories of a distant Fall,

a phantom in the night you swore you saw,

and the tenacity to believe, despite it all.


It was the subtle defiances that make us brave,

the transcendentalist secrets, accumulated with age,

the unshackling of a lifelong slave,

some fall it foolish, others: faith.


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