Pregunta Me
It is not About Me. It is all about ^Him.^
brush of a wisp of a sliver
The memories that break you with the slightest
brush of a
wisp of a
sliver.
That place, those times, that name, that role, that that that,
that which is gone
gone
gone.
With so much change and so much struggle and so much growth,
I might have grown up, grown better, grown over it.
And yet the thought or the
whisper of the thought or the
echo of the thought
is not allowed passage.
‘Cause with its passage
with those gates opened
the flood is allowed passage.
And it floods.
Words times words promises impressions prayers thoughts allowances revelations happiness gratitude relationship time words words words
and altogether too much.
Too much then, too much now, and so it floods.
With just the
brush of a
wisp of a
sliver.
