I once wrote what was on my heart
Without thought to form or line
Words flowed freely,
Pouring from me as if a long-ago built
Dam had broken, allowing the pent-up
Stagnant muck behind it to find freedom
Spilling over and rushing downstream
With a fierceness that warned observers
To step back lest they be caught in the torrent.
Behind the sludge, once loosened,
Free-flowed a clear stream of seemingly
Endless inspiration tapped directly from the Source.
Yet how quickly a newly-remembered spring
Is once again muddied by silt and debris.
To remain pure requires constant movement
Removal of garbage, purifying of the sacred water
That longs to move and change
Shape the forming, growing soul
Carve the being into that which
It was born to be.