sketchings for Unfree Poem
Writing spills off the tip of a diluted paint brush,
but the true color
is hidden in the bottom of the bucket.
Such is the same with humans.
Their authentic "hue" pools
in the undiluted depths of the heart.
We feel it when others dip their quills into the ink black wells, and write colorful stories from our own blood. We pray that the parchment of our soul is as pure as our artistic intentions.
Writing spills off the tip of a diluted paint brush,
but the true color
is hidden in the bottom of the bucket.
Such is the same with humans.
Their authentic "hue" pools
in the undiluted depths of the heart.
We feel it when others dip their quills into the ink black wells, and write colorful stories from our own blood. We pray that the parchment of our soul is as pure as our artistic intentions.
Poems are palettes, not gilded cages - I no longer desire to own anything. My words have broken out of the barn gate. Where they go is God's will!
https://s-media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/fa/c6/da/fac6da95062a3ef0b81e9aac15de9cf5.jpg
A poem is a bird
in a gilded cage
of a pining soul
and a weeping page.
open the door
and still it stays
Close the door
and it flies away.
No comments:
Post a Comment