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Tuesday, January 1, 2013

A Tired Prayer


Just A Life
Like the breath of many
Wrapped in layers of consistency
Nothing extraordinary
Pale complexion
With eyes as heavy
As its sighs
Dying to leave
and so it cries

Just A Hand
Scarred, but tender still
tracing an empty page
No ink and no quill
The unwritten remains
A nomadic thought
With no place to stay
Passing through the night
Vanished by the day

Just A Voice
trapped behind trepidation’s lips.
Never lifted beyond a whisper
Too weak to escape limitation’s grips
hoping for enough strength to find a home
somewhere melodic, near a deep, peaceful lake
stocked nightly with fresh dreams.
A sunporch where a soul can bathe itself awake
Or watch the summer rain
 court an English Daisy

Just a tired prayer
In need of so much more
Than time can share.

6 comments:

  1. I'm not sure I even have words, and you know how rare that is for me. Haunting, I suppose, is as close as I'm going to get, but it's sadly insufficient. You have a wonderful way, Trish. ♥

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  2. Those fleeting thoughts and prayers and wishes-those permanently unresolved dilemmas, they never seem to rest. If only we could put them away, like photo albums, and only take them out when we could focus on them, in the clarity of day! Beautiful piece, Trish

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  3. Just a voice...perfection. You seem to always touch me, ALWAYS. Your work is like my therapy. Thank you. This is one of the reasons I love your heart so very much.

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