Alfa pens a poet’s question.


There are times like tonight when the ink in my soul is flowing boldly,

but dries before it hits the page.


My thoughts are expressive hues and quilt the forest I purposely cower in…

but my follow through is tainted by past intruders… and I tremble, hesitant.

Splaying the soul is not for all – no matter if you feel led.

If  you open the gates, what remains?


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