skip to main |
skip to sidebar
whence this comes
i move my penmake shapesthat turn to picturesi move my penmake shapesthat turn to wordsthe ink bottlefilled with ever dryingcracking inkseems to somehow bleed fortha little moreeach inch drawn forwardthis my eternal soulis not as shallow or as finished
as i so often thinkthe lines seldom waverscurves seem never endmy Godi rediscoverevery day it is youwhence this comesit is youwhence this fountain springsmy Godi discover every dayit is youto whom my heart still wakesindeed youwhence all things areand ever i hopeto always dip into my feeble heartand find more of you there
-David B. Finlayson
06/14/1998
No comments:
Post a Comment