like bags of crumpled rags,
and through the wipers came
the image he had feared.
Portrait of la jeunesse,
small dimples, dots to join
and waiting for a kiss,
so they could flash a smile,
warmed from inside
by fleeting thoughts,
a million glow worms of her mind
now painting rouge
upon a hopeful face.
He heard the thunder,
saw the flash of lightning then,
as angel tears fall softly now,
his heart is unaware of fading light
and trumpets glory still
a confidence to know, my heart, be still.

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