People tend to focus on their own daily rituals. Life doesn't.
The Beginnings of the Day...
Fog drifts in and out,Coating forest limbs and trunks-
Wetting the summers moss
And dousing the sweet chirps
Of wet-winged green crickets.
No spaces to rush to,
No places to hide under,
Just liquid dew to quench
A thirsty morning-glory's
Twisted blossom unfurling for today.
Even the preacher's red eye
Sunday morning sermon
Seeps so slowly into the unsaved
Soul of the weary and worn sinner.
As the fog rolls out for the day...
Poetry by Morpheus
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Written on 2009-11-01 at 03:27
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Doreen Cavazza |
ken d williams |
Zoya Zaidi |
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