Friday, March 2, 2018

Previously Published on The Camel Saloon . . .



On the Wings of a Shadowed Dove

I cut through mountains made of paper,
lined and unlined.  Neither can hold
my rage.  I am rock,
resistant to wind.  I hold blue
flame, symbol of persistence, continuance,
beacon of the broken.  I gather
the pieces that remain around me
like a fort.  They agree to become
kindling for the cause.  I reduce them
to ash, spread them as spackle to fill cracks
in the vision I hold of tomorrow.




(http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/)




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Previously Published on Clutching at Straws . . .

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