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A return to the pen on paper.
Ink from the soul splurged on a white sheet.
Will you consume my smorgasbord of spelling and reprieve?
An art that dies will resurrect a need for transparency.
Return to poetry.
The ache to master the language of the babbling baby.
The need to communicate as an adult.
Shakespeare expectations meet cliche.
I am not a poet, but I write as I grieve.


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I will His pleasure be. The luscious holiness of His gaze will silence my armies. My cruel boredom and apathy will fall asleep,  waking pleasantly as a lifted voice of desire for wholeness. I will His pleasure be. Crawling out of the mud to dress in royal white as a bridal song. Leaving everything that had me bound to carry His weight till His kingdom more fully come.