Where in Your Body Do Words Come From?
A question posed, a question asked.
In times of trouble and times of joy, the words weep from the soul.
In times of thought and things I know, the words are made freshly baked in my mind.
In times of hurt when hate arrives, the words are summoned from the darkness at my door.
Always are the times, inquest and search I thirst for words of more.
There are times, far and few, words of old, words of new, that sift on through.
The gates of heavens doors.
As if the poets of yesterday must Quill the tell of evermore.
So you see, or maybe not, the source is a tapestry.
The words I am, a makers quilt, threads of mystery.
Gifted from the light within which course the land called me.
Alas, just my from you see, so in challenge and in awe, I ask and call on thee.
Just to mention the fewest of few
In answer to the challenge found here:
Under the watchful eyes of these fine editors;
Ravyne Hawke, Spyder, George Blue Kelly, jules, Diana C.