mon coeur

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

 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
 visions of Moses descending.

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

      — © rlbussell 2013