Words
These words I write to fill in blanks
Till empty has less more
With a paper on a stand
A scripture seems more pure
I wrote what’s red the pen that bled
You feel the words that pour
The painted signs with deep lead lines
Eased all my times of gore
I wrote these things
On blank I sing
A surface for a weary king
Of all machines utensils work
To sounds of heaven whistle rings
These words I write
To smite the plain
Confusion loss and
Pain remain
On this paper
I leave my pain
These words I write
For meaning
Copyright © Roger Jordan | Year Posted 2005
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