What images tenderly shape
Our hopeful fantasy?
Who fills their sound?
Who writes the words
Whispered intimately?
What forms the hope spurring us on
In pursuit of love’s quest?
Who do we strive for
Ere the sun
Spills pink against the west?
How quick the envelope of dusk
Seals in its tinted clutch
The threads weaving
Our memories
Where thought alone can touch
…and soon the unknowns of this day
Flicker eternally
Where Time unfolds
Its mystic gray
In colored memory
Lord, take my unborn fantasies
Mortal beneath divine
And give me faith
To trust you when
Your shades differ from mine
© Janet Martin
"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD. Isa. 55:8
This fits well with your "Night-Sounds". It gives a firm footing for when lost in a romantic nostalgia.
ReplyDeleteObviously you know from whence your gift comes. Good job again!
Tug, it seems you understand. thank-you so much!
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