Wednesday, June 29, 2011

it's a poetic sort of morning

quiet whispers of doubt and worry
as i look at my canvas
that should tell a lovely story

i gaze upon the painted, cloudy sky
the birds effortless glide, and fly
the little black puppy
lazily sprawled on the grass
not a care, not a worry in the world

and i envy the simplicity

steadiness, rhyme, and rhythm
have given way to that
which makes no sense
and pieces never fit

i am brokenness
i am clay, shattered
i am artwork in the making
the Master Artist is building his craft
messy, unexplained, scattered

the black and white is all i see
but His past work, exquisite
and i too can believve
He is working all things good, in me

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