MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
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Table of Contents

Poetry


Her Hands Still Smell Like Sunsets

Arthur Turfa

The silence cannot, will not
stifle the emerging word.

Within you speak voices.
Music resounds throughout you.

When despair closes in,
a melody, a metaphor arises.

Far more remains in you than
the incessant, obscene wound.

Flowers blossom where none
ever burst forth in color before.

Every part of your being glows,
Your hands still smell like sunsets.

Let my words shine like the sun
upon the waters you touch.




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