Love this.
Dipping pen to bleached paper, black ink on bone. A soulfu craving in the belly of a writers attention. I can ignore such longing until unfettered words boil over my cauldron of good intentions and tubmle here, to this space, neither sanctimonious or grand simply a meeting of shadow with divinity Above the margins gods and goddesses curse aloud Singing to drab concrete streets, darkened alleys, wide open fields, trickeling brooks and parched deserts. demanding their voices heard oh how I thank you! to ask so much and so very little of us all. |
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Comments 1 to 2 of 2
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