Under the bushel tin, undisturbed since 1929 there remains a secret no one thought to disturb, a curiosity of the heart played its song within the reverb. To its spiritual sense of love, imprisoned, stifled of delivery, into a light that would be hard to bare. Of letters of love repressed under circumstances and secrets, that matter not for writer and recipient, have flown in sunlight the strength of earthly yearning. Gone footsteps now approach dusty doors and cobwebs rest on the bushel of neglect over unmarked love letters from 1929.
Ignore
Ignore the pain numbness of time, stifling discord that sings not a harmonious tune, be vigilant of shadows and who is really walking beside you. For it could be many but only one disturbs and troubles that of a discarnate corrosive enemy twisting and pulling at inner decency, who ignore cries from the poor and disabled and wont share inherent space nor give a garden to play under the only sky we share.