The autumn leaves on the trees were painted gold.
Her honey eyes and warm, blonde hair shone amongst the reflection of the sunset.
Time was slowed, as the world was glazed in molasses. Everything around her whispered silent comforts in soft breaths.
The beauty of existence flourished within her chest, emulating on her delicate face. Youthfulness flushed her cheeks; pink bloomed from inside her to meet the freckles that laid across her completion.
Her movement was the epitome of elegance and allurement, every bone in her body was of brass. Her humble lips told stories of glory and innocence, yet said nothing at all.
Her heart was of a thousand violins, yet she had never learned to play.
Every aspect of her depicted the riches that she was, though she'd remain a treasure to be found.
She rejoiced alongside the komborebi; the envious sunlight groveling at her feet.
She was exactly that–something surreal, vulnerable, and warm; she was the very thing in which beauty was derived from.
She was golden.
[em]
YOU ARE READING
Blind Poets
PuisiPoetry for those who find both comfort and discomfort in the dark. - Em Instagram: @em.g_4 WARNING This book includes references to sensitive topics such as suicide, depression, struggles with mental health and so on.
