Within the silence beats the clock.
Counting time till the next shock.
A profound verse you can't rehearse.
Sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse.
The only choice we get sometimes.
Is a little rhythem and that it rhymes.
To pluck the strings of the readers heart.
And blow their minds right off the chart.
We wait impatient for the line.
To pick like grapes sweet from the vine.
In quiet commune with our spirit.
We ask the Lord that we will hear it.
With pen in hand we scribe a thought.
That with our mind, it could be cought.
The endings never guarenteed.
To be the flower that we seed.