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Paris, TX
If those halls in that place
I called home at the start,
that particular smell that ached
right along with muffled choir
vocals and pipe organ music,
equally mystical and subdued
like soft rains at Summer’s end-
If they are as potent
as the motion I’m making
at the now, the one
now past quickly by,
what is it then to stare
into things that are always
echoing. Clinging to dreams
of locating patterns.
You can only listen.
Copyright ©
Erin Beckett
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