I question not the movement of my pen,
for it is the scratching of my soul’s place,
its being resounding in the void of possibility,
a steadfast and knowing voice of my essence.
And in this expose of sorts,
my truths reverberate like an alarm,
once found its purpose in pure response,
a cacophony of will in flight.
What I know radiates outwardly,
as if a virus spreading, yet conquering darkness,
given the wings of purposeful flight,
to imbue the world with a stark new light.
Words find hearts like dewdrops find flowers,
and glisten with diamond brilliance
to adorn life with morning favor,
new beginnings of clarity.
Tis beauty I seek in every breath and scratch of pen,
to find hearts open to beauty’s beguiling whim,
and saturate a mind with loving intent not sin,
to bring compassion back to meaning.
The burden of my pen is less,
when many attest its beauty,
and I am whole because of what I sew,
in this scratching out of love in beauteous tones.
Sometimes slow, but often fast,
this flow of words does last for days and nights,
until each work is done, the race is won,
this soul just cannot rest, awake or in slumber’s hold.
And each work rests upon a field,
as if it were planted and I the yield,
and the words transcend my yearning mind,
often unrecognized in time,
as if my pen took me for the ride.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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