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As brush to palette, as hands to clay
I sketch and mould my words.
Nothing lustrous here
no bright and gaudy colours,
no smooth or shaped sculptures,
just simple truthful words to look beyond,
between the lines to find
the crumbs of comfort I try to pen.

 

Words that spill like broken pearls
scattered from saddened mind.
The same feelings as yours perhaps?

 

The words fall to paper
forming like inky dew
to glisten and shine…

 

I seldom find the phrases I need
to mend this heart of mine,
to weave this magic spell for you.

 

As brush to palette.
As hands to clay.
As words to…
 
 
All Rights Reserved @ Susie Hemingway.