The clay of inspiration. Hands forming,
breathing with chance; the unmaking of one
into another. Words fall to the carpet, rolling into
waiting ears where discerning and rejection
fill the shadows; the song played backwards
says nothing.
There’s a blush of hate at the mouth of truth
and a smile on the eyes of deceit. Wonder seldom
surfaces on the shoreline where hope drowns;
a place once firm now frail with years.
Pushing the past to get past. Answers fill
the trees of thought.
Roger Singer 