Thy grace be

 In the burning cauldrons,  through the humming saws,  across the poles -  wrapped in cotton and set aflame,  and in the swift strike of tyr...

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Secret

In the box
beneath my bed
lies
a forbidden story,
with unfinished ends,
etched out in Chelpark
on
blank white pages.
No secrets.
Only incomplete mutterings.
Scrumptious possibilities
hovering over the
pool of blue-black ink.
The fluted-nib of
moonlight's quill
standing still.


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Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.