All Hail the BrokenBound
Here’s to the sons and daughters of the black crow quill,
with their moon soaked scrawls that never still.
I adore these scratched iterators of positive intent
moving through scribbled situations,
calming worries mere mortals
must ferment.
If life is trite - an open book,
all crooked texts and ink splat truths,
then these souls of word illuminate
the stilted ways in which,
we often look.