A Time To Write
from seclusion the mind emerges. with not fresh thoughts, no.
simply old, dusty, unclaimed words.
buried treasure, of no worth.
still, they must surface and live on this page.
they must face the light.
walking slowly across straight lines, stumbling blindly as they go.
then suddenly, almost lizard like, they scurry every which way ,with each stoke of
the pen.
dormant no more.
still old, yet finally released into life.
Copyright © Rebecca Sharp | Year Posted 2007
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