The Heart’s Whispers

when we hear the whispers of the heart

prodding us to the depths of eventide’s end-

we simply mask

the glass threads

piercing  souls


we drink frothy champagne

whilst reveling in the scent of musk


worn hookahs

in a city’s edge

where wives are beaten silently,

where children frost their fingers forgivingly,


we are in Plato’s Cave-

dolorous  essence

entraps and forces

us downward…



we do not heed

whispers of our hearts.



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