Create your own Rorschach stains, and find meaning in their beauty
Poetry

 

The find

It is not on the brink of ecstacy

That you will find yourself,

Rather are you lost there

Unto the horizon.

 

It is not in the deepest sorrow

That you are found,

Where bubbling mirth is lacking

To join you to the sun.

 

It is in the battlefield of the hum-drum life

With its wails of stabs and ayes of joy

That you are worth.

There, in the midst of your heart,

Is your soul.

 

Sylvia Munton, August 2013

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