mon coeur

Marching
    is heard in my slow, slow ears,
       like the tapping of snares in the
    distance,

 like the ringing of bells,
   and the distant tramp of shuffling feet.

And though
   the early morning days
        are gone,
    their glory remains etched upon me
     like
 visions of Moses descending.

Love, it presses on,
   ever
     remaining
     above the fray,
     and
   each and every time
   my heart beats,
    I inch ever
       closer
   to yours.

      — © rlbussell 2013