When does the clay to its maker say “Mold and shape me thus?” Or canvas meek to painter speak A condescending fuss? Submission today to trust your way Accompanied by a cost To hold my qualms in open palms, Hoping for gain in loss.
When does the clay to its maker say “Mold and shape me thus?” Or canvas meek to painter speak A condescending fuss? Submission today to trust your way Accompanied by a cost To hold my qualms in open palms, Hoping for gain in loss.
Before you journey on your way, Before light graces curtains sheer, Before you plunge into your day, Be still and know that I am near. When burdens weigh, your head brought low, When grasp is robbed of what’s held dear, When chains restrain, temptations grow, Be still and know that I am near …
My trajectory seemed clear Since the freedom of the past. A gentle breeze To charm the seas And guide my feeble mast. The sunshine freely given As reminder of a love No one out-streams Life-giving beams Cascading from above. Just the breeze and its beloved Content to surf each wave Together as two …
NOT SINGLED OUT 