(For the gift is imagination,
dictation without hesitation)
Thoughts that are the pieces
of the puzzle of a plot,
words that are the medium
to tell you what I've got.
Stories that are-
a figment of my mind,
lies they may be,
true but with pints.
Words, they may flow
as water on the sand,
but the moon should reside
on the top of the hand.
As now, what I write,
fortuitous banalities?
high tide of my mind-
inevitably.
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Where the faucets bleed with ink ..
ReplyDeletethat runs and makes its way ... on floors of sacred paper,
the stories it treads are poignant & beautiful
But alas, these dank houses are not ones,
men choose to spend their lives in.