The threshing floor of latent thoughts, Potential not yet known. Mixing. Morphing. Fading. Fighting. As if they’ve just been sown. Golden in appearance, Undistilled, they wait their turn. Grinding. Groaning. Bubbling. Boiling. Careful. Gold can still yet burn.
The path of the just, Or the path of the deranged. You tie your mount to fantasies, Of life out on the range. Galloping through miracles, And messianic plains. It's hard to know which is you, Or who really holds the reins. Onward where the sun meets sky, Sandstorms oft pass through. Blessed are those... Continue Reading →
Papa Used to Say 