old soul.

crooked fingers pointing to

all thats wrong and must be right,

lays a bed of discontent

a thickly veiled charmless night,

no room for movement, no space for thought

violent calm in acceptances way,

whittling down the very core

of  rare and truthful, warming rays,

leaving wind and sun and rain

to shine a light where life does meet,

crooked fingers gently feeling

a tender heart of careful beats.

About lifeofawillow

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