Pillow Thoughts

Lest there be any doubt, There has been far too much, For the hand that has written so squarely, Has spoken with a tongue that is round. There is much to do, Far more then any mouth can speak. The dormant seeds whose wait nears death, Need not internment under mountains to breath, But freedom to grow under the faithful eye of patience, Whose blanket comforts and nourishes, Waiting for eyes to open. There is an ocean where tears need to be fished, Mixed with blood and the black of ink, Poured into an opaque bottle, Shaken once for eternal life And with the gift of hands that let go, And a brush whose name none may know, A stroke shall begin to shape, Remake and retake The face whose hope had faded.