Waiting. Weathering. Willowing.
The wind whither the trees
The trees tilted, they tantalize
The Truth here, the Truth it sees
Stones are lined, are straight
Whispers curl about, comforting
Leaves layer in light and dark
The stones, lined, harmonizing
Chilled. Chimed. Churned.
The Truth chipped in beat
The beat, slow and solid
Real, beyond, we meet.
God bless,
>P<
Joshua Fahey
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