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?