My pen has not been busy
It’s been silent
Full of things to speak but I pause and clinch this staff tightly
Selah on the moments recorded in time
Wallow in despair and frustration of what I see
Contempt and hopelessness hold hands counting the minutes until they invade my space
I part my lips
Hoping for an exodus of sound
Even a sigh
At the end of this dry tongue is promise
So instead of speech there are signs
Pointing to destinations
Visions that need eyes to see not the trick but the treasure
Dreams that need interpretations
Ears willing to hear and do
All before idleness crashes against me
Thirsting for Wet ink to build its walls against the path
White sea clear and full of opportunity
Yet I selah
I take in the power of silence
The strength and sharpness of this pen
The depth of its permanence
It stains my lips
Again I part them
Take a deep breath
I cross the bottom of this dry ocean of words
I reach the other side
No more wilderness pages
This is my exodus of sound
Remember that we are all but shattered Mirrors looking to mend our images.“
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