May my tongue be a brush and my language be paint. I will languish in anguish and angst ’til my way is made straight. I beg of thee, make me a vessel of verse, with wine for words, the arid pages will drink. My blood is ink. My flesh is paper. My mind a sparrow. My heart an anchor. My breath as burnt sage in these strange days. My life is but a vapor. My past a stranger. My future impending danger then rest. Suffocation then breath. Set my lantern aflame, offer refuge from rain and replace a stain with a stain. As I claw through the earth to grasp words that hold worth will these verses spit curses or give birth from the dirt?
(Art= German Painter: Caspar David Friedrich 1774-1840)
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