The Well

Explaining the smooth delicate sweetness of a drop of water to someone who has never drank from the well is like growing daisies on your head.

Pure movement of an angels lips across my brow deepens the colors on a moonlit night.

Speak to me of surrender and I will tell you the secrets of wild horses and dance barefoot against the dry, smooth, serene soil.

You speak, but your lips only move in counter cultural directions imploding thoughts upon the world like wild marbles tossed into a hand blown glass bowl.

Gather the tender in spirit and allow their wings to blow the cobwebs off of your heart,
freeing it to abide in the realm of pure serenity.

Prayer is the language of my heart,
dancing eyes closed on the naked earth with my ancestors is the movement of my soul.
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