My muse speaks in muffled tones, a susurrus of inspiration – too bad I am hard of hearing. (Tuesdays are for Twitter. Find me @Vjknutson.)
Somewhere inside, beneath the noise of to do’s, or regrets, buried so deep, that I disbelieve it exists, and yet… there it is – pulsating
Winter – the colour of my hair, a sedentary state of being, the numbing over of ambitions… These are but illusions… I am fluid, essence
Sail erected, call it ‘Hope’ Location dialed in Saboteurs asleep Done with party persona, inalterable generalities Ready to cater to the awake Willing to believe
How is it that a tree can stir my soul, so? Yet, set amongst the Douglas firs – an orchestra of giants, the reassurance of
Rooted in the earth, ever reaching for the sky – speaking nature’s truth.