M.K. JOSEPH > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

I jogged every day. twenty miles all the way. The road rough with stones. That punished painfully than Mr. Jones. eight miles an hour ..

A voice is heard of you. Deep into the woods by the gatherers. As you hop from tree to ground, and ground to the tree again Always..

A painter seats on his stool. Poses artistically to his tool. Armed with colors and brushes. In his little workshop. Not destructe..

Don’t wake me tonight. For the owl give me a flight. When moon give no light.

M.K. JOSEPH Writing