the church bell tower
never had any windows
just longing for a color not yet known.
buckets of blue sky wind and ghost,
a post card writing mind.
* broken bats sound plays
the sound of near
Tags: almost a haiku, architecture, broken bats sound, empty plate, poetry
That’s why it does nothing but point. It only ever speaks when someone else pulls on a rope.
wind between horse shoe arches and down bell curves plays flute
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