Hilltop: A Literary Paper. Volume 1 Number 3
2 The Words
2 The Words
Marked on the broad white page
The patterned signs remain,
The still memorial
Of life's rash flood.
The sweaty strivings of the heart,
The ripe fruit yielding to the tongue,
The weight of water pouring down
From panic's over-toppling wave
Through time are falling,
Far, far away
Down depths of being lost to me.
Here is the marble of the mind,
The freed, the consummated voice
That echoes strangely that far flight.