A Writer's Sketchpad

A series of short poems.

My fingers are not those of a sculptor.

I cannot mold shape from mud, form a face

neither can I weild a painter's pen 

And yet, we share a

   vision.

They hold a paintbrush in their hand; I hold words at my command,

We each hold paintbrushes at our

    hearts.

 

 

 

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed