Stealing hours

Stealing hours from jealous time,
surreptitiously I write.
If that theft's criminal, then I'm
as good as busted every night.
Life rolls on; work, marriage, sleep.
Each busy day renews the fight
to find a quiet time to keep
unto myself; not out of spite
or hiding out from jaded eyes,
but understand my place aright;
at peace with all that might arise,
to see life through my Spirit's sight.
I gift myself the time I stole
to mend the patchwork of my soul.

Reviews

[.]

~ "to mend the patchwork of your soul"... you say it beautifully... and you relay the dimensions of existence beautifully too...

[ju]

i don't think i've read this b4.... lovely poem. and it really does sound like a spell. beautifully woven.

[Emily B]

this is wonderful

glad to see you

[Thea Fuentebella]

The flow of this poem is good. like a spell or something you can recite over and over and never get tired doing it. a good one