Submitted by Ronald E. Shields
There was this once
before the writing dried up
and I became wet with beer piss.
Once when the words showed up unannounced,
dressed to kill the boredom between benders.
They were holidays
stifling yawns on Monday at the office.
Words came like children on sleds in snowfall,
like young boys
in the hands of young girls.
Came like answers to prayer flags,
or prayers on the lips of the old woman
as the priest leans in with oil,
the scent of almond on his breath
and an answer to the question she wants to ask.
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Photo Credit: “Still Lide of Roses,” by Edward George Handel Lucas