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Sep 2017
Every single strain of thought
Inner/outer/oddly wrought
Ever bending, winding weaving
Meant for meaning, left unleaving
Linger longer lifting all
Till all still lowly wonder fall
This gift of words and dreams too often
Flow from endings start to soften
And every bundled mass on pages
Trickles out from sloth to sages
And when the words won’t wilt or waken
We find them there both left and taken…

And still we write them.
For Clifford H. Banks
Thomas James Hogan
Written by
Thomas James Hogan
  606
     Lior Gavra, ---, Star BG, Ari, Art and 4 others
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