As I sketch each year,
I fill the base of a jar, with a
fabricated world of dreams
ranging in realities

during the early hours of spring,
I think of you – thinking of me,
and I pay for all that blooms,
by shrivelling while my colour drains

for all the world to see,
during heavy rains
I remain many things,
but I am not what they see.

My soul does not sing
in empty fields, nor
does it speak of atrocities,
silence is the voice of my soul.

-L.J. Lenehan-
Art by MC Escher
23

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2 thoughts on “

  1. Pingback: Suggestion Saturday: March 29, 2014 | On The Other Hand

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