Art, poetry and inspiration

Writing Life Words dripped, like molten gold into the swirling vat of liquid thoughts; images were caught in my inner being, Waiting there without direction or destination: Many becoming one. In the reckoning, a part of me rises to surface. I see a secret forming then it flows back to the depth. My pen knows where this secret lives. It pulls up the nectar, drops it skillfully from my soul, onto the page. Sometimes joy rippled across the lines, or sorrow so deep that tear drops smudged the shaky offerings. Sometimes it was a mystery I could not understand until the whole had been written. These were reverent times, yielding times, terrifying and invigorating times. For who can know the heart of a man? Who can know what he is becoming and what he truly knows? As I allow myself to dip into the circling spiral of my life's store I am awed by the story that is told by the entwining and separating of all that remains after the living.