Shape shifting poetsMultiple are handles they use,
perhaps a mere whim, yet a ruse,
which patterns of the mind betray,
of scents which from their ink so ooze.
We smile and let them have their way,
as masks they don to make their day,
until the time their soul’s stripped bare,
which is when they sit down to pray.
Egos are strange, handle with care
for...
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So spake simple SimonTruth is known when ego is shorn
but what’s imbibed, we can’t pass on,
for how may sunlight be revealed,
to the deluded who shun dawn?
Soul’s light within is not revealed,
unless our heart’s resolve is steeled,
discarding dark desires mundane,
to embrace power God does wield.
Pitter patter of falling rain,
moments when fears are to rest lain,
entwines soul with the universe,
freeing...
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