To him of Truth
Inures wealth of heart.
Wisdom grows its roots
in the sands of time.
I am a free man
given to adventure
when and if I find it,
I pray my passions run amok.
at the core, the common characteristic among us of such disparate views, diverse cultures, and multitude of experiences, is our genius and the universal uniqueness of it.
bare a boy
I ran out of youth
yea, it was then
the running Began
I am bound to eternal restlessness,
Born to shiver in the warmth,
To perspire in the chill.
I stay a child of Saturday for having no more ambition than that.
I wander down roads less traveled for the mysteries are greater there.
Struggling to know one thought profound, never writ nor spoken.
Should I encounter thee, I offer my hand, my smile; lest I remain a stranger forever wonder what passion lies unearthed in thy soul.
I have come from where there are few neighbors to where they are aplenty and I yearn return to where I was before I got back here.
Each one with whom you travel owns a microcosm of your life and though she goes her separate way, your story’s there within her.
One Reply to “Brushstrokes”
beautiful – eyes have a way of spilling truth