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.


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