The Med fashions ripples of sand
As the wind blows musings in cloudy ridges
Washboard clouds and sand
Scrubbing thoughts rolling them over
Looking for a path to let it go
to retain the clean pure and true
to create a world where Puff lives forever
drinks tea with fairies
and gives away the beauty stick.
My words are frozen
Held back in tight silos
At times so quiet
the soul becomes silent
Or worse comatose.
Words behind bars grip
shadows of thoughts and feelings
Afraid to let them go.
If they should escape
What chaos could follow?
If words become things
What will then flood the heart?
Will it smile sing or cry?
Will it soar or curl up then petrify?
Will it wish to stop beating?
The Med draws washboards on the sand
High winds blow her thoughts in cloudy ridges