Winter
The snow falls...flitting in swirls.
Across the bleak landscape.
Blows in backflips.
So goes my spirit...falling in whirls.
In the sunless silence.
Blows in backflips.
Do I land quietly to be covered in the bleak mid-winter?
It's so confusing to have so many little voices screaming for my attention. The artistic me. The organized, responsible me. The impulsive, passionate me. The servant, the schemer, the devout, the rebellious, the theologian, the dog trainer, the musician, the poet. This is my attempt to listen to her. And set her free.
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