It is not the reverie of I
you can not grasp
it is only the fear of amour
you can not let go of.
As the river flows
the words of God
nourishes all living things.
Poetry does not come easy
these words I spill
is only a fasting
of my wounded soul.
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WhisperingQuill.All Rights Reserved.
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- Author: Whisperingquill (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: December 21st, 2018 01:56
- Category: Sad
- Views: 29
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