The Gift Is Ever Present
The press was hot; I touched it not
There seemed to be no leaven
A dying breed with no 'poet's creed'
A smothered voice from heaven
behold has sold bent soul for pots
The pans have surely risen
A 'call' obscure, now angles high
in realms beyond dry lands
I write for song and carry on
this voice to soothe the soul
I hold no depth...I'm so inept
for a time I am granted
a resting place, a burdened space
a rock to rest my head
For peace escapes my deepest core
bargaining my talents
A long awaited shift has shone
beneath my wearied toes
It matters not, the pain of past
The gift is ever present
Copyright © Annalinda W. | Year Posted 2016
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