james christensen

prophets never sleep
their shouts will never end nor
their eyes cease glowing
come home with me to listen
to the low voice of reason

I see you standing
by the gold katsura trees
outside my front door
you, who made me who I am
old and broken, weak with dreams

to find your letter
after so long a silence
has astonished me
so many flowers have bloomed
since we wept in my garden

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