I write the dreams of angels with my pen
Like cascading waterfalls streaming across a blank page
Words… letters… mere symbols of sounds
Which bear poignant meaning only to those with
A listening ear… or perhaps an attentive eye.
I sing the songs of mute souls, brushing my pen across
The heartstrings of those who cannot weep
Until tears flow like laughter bubbling out of a delighted child.
Blank “white� stares up at me sometimes like a red flag in front of a bull—
Challenging me to reach inside my core, to draw out a drink for the thirsty.
Sometimes I find only desert sand, but I still reach
Pawing through memories and emotions,
Thoughts and ideas flitting just beyond my fingertips.
If I sit still long enough and wait patiently enough,
I am rewarded with rich treasure—
The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
The words flow then, like a fountain, as angels
Paint their dreams across my heart.
My pen moves in its own rhythm, dancing to an unheard beat.
I am aware of the hearts around me
Longing for the drum to play their song
Sing their sorrows, utter their longings…
Each one wishing to be known by another.
It is a lonely existence sometimes, this dreaming with angels.
As I write what others feel, I find myself set apart.
Where is the soul who will hear my silent song—
The inexpressible longing for “other� to meet with me,
To understand me, to tell me I am desired and accepted?
My Creator comforts me when I can be eased by no other—
Whispers that destiny, though not yet seen, is still real… and imminent,
If I but let it come, flowing through my pen as the gift that it is—
Reaching, touching, healing through me,
Sometimes to me, but not for me alone.
So, I keep on writing the dreams of angels,
Letting myself take flight on the wings of words…
Like cascading waterfalls streaming across a blank page
Words… letters… mere symbols of sounds
Which bear poignant meaning only to those with
A listening ear… or perhaps an attentive eye.
I sing the songs of mute souls, brushing my pen across
The heartstrings of those who cannot weep
Until tears flow like laughter bubbling out of a delighted child.
Blank “white� stares up at me sometimes like a red flag in front of a bull—
Challenging me to reach inside my core, to draw out a drink for the thirsty.
Sometimes I find only desert sand, but I still reach
Pawing through memories and emotions,
Thoughts and ideas flitting just beyond my fingertips.
If I sit still long enough and wait patiently enough,
I am rewarded with rich treasure—
The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
The words flow then, like a fountain, as angels
Paint their dreams across my heart.
My pen moves in its own rhythm, dancing to an unheard beat.
I am aware of the hearts around me
Longing for the drum to play their song
Sing their sorrows, utter their longings…
Each one wishing to be known by another.
It is a lonely existence sometimes, this dreaming with angels.
As I write what others feel, I find myself set apart.
Where is the soul who will hear my silent song—
The inexpressible longing for “other� to meet with me,
To understand me, to tell me I am desired and accepted?
My Creator comforts me when I can be eased by no other—
Whispers that destiny, though not yet seen, is still real… and imminent,
If I but let it come, flowing through my pen as the gift that it is—
Reaching, touching, healing through me,
Sometimes to me, but not for me alone.
So, I keep on writing the dreams of angels,
Letting myself take flight on the wings of words…