pm poetry

Love, will you
please
meet me by
the sea?

Will you drop
everything
tethering you
to this port
that teems
with souls
who once
were free?

Love, will you
please
meet me by
the mountainside,
unburdened
and fit to climb?

Love, will you
denounce the god
that keeps them bound
to steeple bells?

Love, can we
make the
whole world
heaven
and cease
fretting over
hell?

Hell is the port
where souls
deboard
in search
of warmth
and a soft bed.

Hell is the morn
when they decide
never to
set sail again-
and from that dawn on,
live every day
as if they
are already
dead.

Love, will you
please
meet me on the
outskirts of desert-
hills, aureate,
ancient, still.

I promise
that on nights when
the sky is
unblemished by
clouds or mist,
we’ll listen close
and hear
the sound
of steeple bells
chiming,
impossibly near-

across the dunes,
the peaks, the sea,
and we’ll think
of all those souls
who stayed
to swing
the bells
for themselves.

Love, will you
please
meet me by
the sea?
I know
we’ll hear
divine chimes
while we roam
aimlessly.