Words exhale rhythm and rhyme,
Tasting of air filled with brine,
That once carried notes from windblown chimes,
After falling from the cloudless clime.
It is odd that air travels so far,
Only consumed and exhumed from lungs and heart
Air who's element creates stars perpetual light,
And presses against skin on sultry nights.
Yet escapes from lungs tight clasp,
In a rush leaving out of lovers grasp,
When souls are crushed beyond recognition,
And empty eyes are seen in one's reflection.
Comments about this poem (Air by Matthew Moser )
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