Isn't it
funny how
there are mountains;
jagged, grey and blue rock
a black cliff to throw one's self off of
scraggly bushes clinging to one singular drop of hope
icy cold seeping into bones until they've faded altogether
secrets and whispers on the wind, apprehension and fear on the tongue.
And then
there are mountains;
rolling green foothills
charming yellow cottages with
sweet-smelling smoke wafting from inside
sun-kissed cheeks and soft lips on a bed of green grass
running through a meadow; daisies in playful, wind-swept hair.
Isn't that
amusing?
-
rhiannon merlot
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