Father finds the feathers Downy, laden in the garden, Purest white, of any angel, with a heart that couldn’t harden. Every quill, His fingers gather rather quickly, yet with care. Thoughts of splendor ever tender fill His heart as He prepares to Pen a masterpiece, a marvel, beauty wrapped amidst the pages It’s a story told of love to last throughout the many ages. Ink and quill in...
If I could plan a painting pass the Purple, pass the Pink, I would paint upon my future, brush the lines of what I think to be the proper path of pacing towards the ends of this or that. If I do it all myself, I risk another Art Attack unless I ☼Brush up on obedience, ☼and Dye to sin each day, ☼Tone my tongue with tact and tenderness, ☼and Prime my heart to pray ☼Smudge the traits of self...