Thursday, August 14, 2014

   The man that writes, scratches out, rewrites. Composing with his mind like the rolling Nebraska hills. Staying green all along the way, moving at a steady pace. He refigures the words, his expertise showing.  He sees and hears of nothing around him. For he is submerged in the rushing waters of my soul. Deep in the current giving words to thoughts only known by me.  Once read I will not be alone anymore. He has painted my picture and written my song.
   Oh how does he form that song of words? How does he tell of the intregizes of the human soul? He is a painter of emotions and thoughts. Bringing out the deep beauty of my soul. 
He is the author of the book I can not lay down.