A poem for Ash Wednesday The story began with breath,into earth,formed by the potter’s hand. And despite any self proclaimed worth,Always ends disintegratinginto no man’s land. The margins of our lives arePerpetually haunted by fate,The inescapable spectre that lies in wait. Yet somehow I am convinced bymy vanity of vanitiesthat I can hold ontomy kingdomContinue reading “Dust Creating”
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Hopeful Wanderer 