Thursday, February 25, 2016

lint in my mind

I stood in the field as the icy artic wind nipped and tucked at my flesh, pinning it to my bones, like a macabre tailor.

Strange how single lines, float to the surface of my writers pail.

Pollywogs with there tails still attached, with a promise of maturing into great story ideas.

A tantalizing agate among the pebbles. A glimpse of gold in the pail.

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