Excerpt from the latest poem in All The Petals Of The Universe 2:
Heaven only knows the possibility and plausibility of a sun-lit horizon, rays of orange tempting yellow and flirting with blush strokes, to paint before me an unearthly masterpiece, as if Leonardo Da Vinci has just coughed upon the horizon, on this early morning of June.
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It's in these small miracles that I find my light and my lightness. In the wailing of the leaves at 6.30 AM on a windy morning, the cheering and dancing as they start to feel the warmth against their petals and barks and parts and parts and the final whistling that accompanies the forests motions to bless me with an almost quiet yet distinct melody, on mornings such as this.
My withered doghouse of sadness is swallowed whole in this boastful house, sitting perched on a mountain edge, detached like the very meaning of isolation!
It is here that I lay in my white silk slip-on gown atop a brown mahogany bed marveling at the forces that will themselves to paint me a morning such as this, a view such as this.
It's more than just this enviable place it-self, it's the feeling of buoyancy that comes along with it.
I want desperately to be carved into stone and erected on this very spot, dancing sheets in place and all, and bear witness to this majestic mornings every day, for as long as there is a day to be had.
Read this and more on All The Petals Of The Universe 2 and discover more poverty from All The Petals Of The Universe 1 and The Cages We Built.
Any questions? Feel free to shoot me a message.
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