Wrestling with a pen,
an instrument, willing to splash ink…

Matters not upon what, or for whom.

The hand that holds the pen
perceives this time as inopportune.

Sudden events
—tragic, inconsequential, unexplained.

One following another…
the phone rings…I wish not to answer.

The messages received

slowly, they sift through the

I tip it over and over again.

What is changing?

Thoughts no longer wrap themselves
around my mind.

If anything
—a blanket, a comforter, 
a crocheted afghan wraps around my heart.

I need the warmth to allow the
‘beating,’ to find its soft
charted rhythm.

The pen rests now on a page.
I hear the sound of silence
splashing all over my Soul…not ink,

but You, blotting the messages
in between each line…

so much unwritten.

Perhaps, that is where you dwell?

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