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Thursday, September 29, 2011


I quick glance, it 'tis the eye that smiled, it owns that view rather loosely then relinquishes it for another...mistress. Time alone stands...still alone it stood. No heart beat it's penance...A requiem for the sinful, a pageant for the poor. In attendance at the pyre once more...HIS Heart won't MELT.

Often, the words just come to me...they will flow in on an air current or whisper in the breeze. Some will come suddenly in a big blow...a thunderstorm at dawn, others merely a light, late evening shower. No real pattern, there is NO normal...nothing is routine about it really...yet frequently they leave me more puzzled then before, less self-assured yet strangely strengthened. Collected calluses on the writer's soul sustains further investigation of such wayward nudges, it 'tis but a word-bump in the night.

I don't often know what I am to do with what I write. I am left with a pile of words, perhaps a jumble of attached emotion to accompany them but usually that is it. Emotion and words...those are the tear-drops of FAITH that collect at my feet, transforming the pool of sorrow into an ocean of joy.

What to do then? Ahh, that question, for this writer as with most I assume answers itself: WRITE. 

And so I shall, My Dear Reader....and so I shall.

(Painting by Claude Monet)