It's a young and magical day. And the clouds are in love.
People scattered around like hummingbirds. With thoughts as delicate as butterfly wings.
And there's a classroom with ideas floating around like stardust.
Teaching and learning and doing and hoping.
New, exciting, wonderful things.
Children learning. Growing. Aspiring.
Building themselves to be the next generation's inspirers.
Inside, a girl looking a little lovely and a little lost.
With cat eyes and a warm smile and a head full of beautiful words.
She pretends not to notice when you stare in awe.
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
