Quilling me softly...
Our words are like our fingers
that we cover up in gloves
a delve reveals the wrist lines
for the letters and the loves
palms are whispering the tales
that have lead into a touch
of the fingers loss of fabric
in just seconds; saying much
words pouring forth as we dip our digits
books of pillows sent to tempt the heart
sensual overload is released in the fidgets
left to seek fire of the kind only heaven can start.
DRB
Proverbs 12
12:12 The wicked desireth the net of evil men:
but the root of the righteous yieldeth fruit.
12:13 The wicked is snared by the transgression
of his lips: but the just shall come out of trouble.
12:14 A man shall be satisfied with good by the
fruit of his mouth: and the recompence of a man's
hands shall be rendered unto him.
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