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one year later...

4:44

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a small token of kindness (6th November 2021) 
          
          there is a wave of longing that flattens over the sun in its treasured loneliness; like the beads of the blue sky that touch the breath bare, wishing for an acceptance more intimate. the frail lavenders harbour near the eyes of summer; like a deal signed by the deceased, sun a phantom of Medea. 
          
          octobers are souls of the ones who have no longer their minds within; like the moon that floats with its home beneath. afraid is the ancestor of the frames of its successor, while it is restless under the shadow of rusted regrets. without the burns of the sweet river, no body has been able to make time out of life. 
          
          decay is prominent, the bones a sign of immortality. what rolls away is skin, the cloth of the human; the mind a passion of the stars that stay through generations. beyond the scenic sunsets, there exists a socket of ribs; of those who perished and the vases of young ache a decoration of the monochromatic sky. 
          
          the sun finds warmth through the stories it holds and the moon coolness from its.  the warmth turns to fire and the cool wind to a rigid winter. where stories exist, there lives a mind. a game of tenderly using poison. 
          
          minds suffocate, they live above the rest. and like the sun and moon, they are a little warm and cold and a bit like burning winter and freezing summer. what comes from these sometimes is sweet venom; useless yet an addictive ocean. one may suffer, one may be pulled to the bottom. but there never really is an ocean, the mind a gifted ghost of illusion. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (5th November 2021) 
          
          down the train of dawn, lives a tooth of ember pain. it peeks each day through the window of sheer rain, one that is unseen to naked eye. oceans of grief and waves of shuddering leaves cloud the horizon, stretched across the marks of twilight violence. 
          
          the race of storms touches the rage of the lungs, the interracial mingling a sign of the begotten hills of home. where the place of honeysuckled childhood is abandoned and the one poem of earth is promised a tongue of submission. 
          
          land is but a design of permanent perishment, the sky a palace of parchment shielded woman. the presence of howling wildness amplified, the screams of green screened by mulberry blood. the cracks of the heart touch the scarlet springs, flowing with flesh of the briefly cuddled kid. 
          
          where there are miracles, there is insanity. a form of compassion with glaze of doubt. unknown hurts, the known scars. sounds of mocking, a maleficent knocking exists by the sane mind, the insane half a companion of the lost marigolds and blood. 
          
          insanity is pure; a part of normality, tender to touch and soft to sores. the sun is a friend of the indigo hearts, of those who value the anise of freedom; and a foe of the sane abysses. where there is sanity there are holes with prison bars; a plea to escape. paths and patterns are found in lost kingdoms, in grounds of the silence breaths. 
          
          like the sun and the stars that flee the dark abode, that race against themselves to find a spot, the mind must imprison itself, to become a bit on the loose. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (3rd November 2021) 
          
          the coat of night is cloaked with crimson dust, the morning dew a signature of its blooming ashes. when the sun awakens, there is an ancient rhyme that spreads; far from irises, free from eclipses. 
          
          moths relinquish in the deserted divinity, life a segment of luxury and wellness. winters brace the emptiness, the soul's hand caresses the twigs of aged pain. skies are dampened with a half of the earth's oceans and the three thousand tears that collide with the moon; like its shadow that glides over the sunflower. 
          
          the brush of baby breaths against the buried memories is similar to the walk of the widow; laden with heaviness irrespective of the bad or good in them. to forget the last summer is a tragedy, to lean into it a forced responsibility. 
          
          where there is monstrosity, there is awareness. everything right is in simplicity; the world a mesh of celebrated complications. crevasses exist, fear a dynamic of every body. what we are most afraid of we must become in order to earn a stature of equilibrium. 
          
          to breathe, one must set aside the burden of living. allow life to be fueled with little. relief is found in emptiness, in nakedness, in raw depth. 
          
          like the sun that chooses to appreciate the littleness of the Earth, we must allow our hearts to explore the chaos of garnet and grapevines. for after all, have our hearts not been moulded but to be little glass ochres of residual sunsets? 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (25th October 2021) 
          
          when the light strikes the earth, like the anthem of fisted floral bows, the world swing itself with the honeysuckles; a place to find a precious breath of garnet breath and an escape from the remorse of the passing tune.
          
          a hopeless mind carves into a sector of amulet-carved sun; where the crimson feet walk with the ocean's tremor. what one finds is nothing but a reminiscent reflection of the steps of the hollowed hearts; a war that had gifted salted delirium and cursed shells of optimistic odes. 
          
          what was deemed impossible by destiny's copper shined organs shall never find an acceptance like the honeyed- colossal raging ribs; a power in the chest, in the crest, like a phantomic barrier. 
          
          but has the world ever bent to rules? what are those sweet asylums to the ones who have drowned to abyss; to the Queen Anne's lace? it has summoned and bowed to night's thicketed crescents. it has pocketed the bones and preserved them in sweet alyssum. the more the earth has fled, the better it has bloomed. 
          
          the sun wanders; claiming the nights and what it holds. cauldron collapses; it is now a being of charmed control. what it cannot brace with its thirty touch, it sanctions with its stretched sobriety. the dagger draws itself against the mother- cloaked soil, spilling the shadows and the shades of the indigo ghosts before it reaches the night in the pearls. 
          
          albeit through a lustre of waves, the sun collapses within the moon's reflection; fever of a longing meet causing a platonic ripple.
          
          nothing quite is impossible. what you wish for can be achieved, whether it be catastrophic magic or fierce tempest of the confederate roses. let your veins run recklessly through the woods. many a life and many a dream have been saved by gracing death like a woodbine's peck; like the sun that closes upon death with the light of Aster. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (23rd October 2021) 
          
          on the sun, there are dry scratches of the metaphoric fence, the blindfolded eyes that were forced to negotiated with darkness and the marks of hearts that could not sew themselves back to wholes. in the silent sky, there are strips of forbidden letters that dance to kill which appear as falling stars to the naked beings. 
          
          rain embodies itself with the earth, the tragedy of the brown melting into a caramel spring. the sky expands its chest to water tears for the fact that it never has witnessed a sunset; the sin of hardly being able to caress its own cheek, its own features, heavier than regrets. 
          
          to a soul, how much does the window of life sting? to a body of smoke, blood and tears are natural and sunlight an iron cage, in fine leaves and cartilages; a fine November with its enemies. what is blood, but a mixture of fury and future; soaked in harm, made up of pretentious glory.
          
          to live, one must breathe in some place else. in accordance with the sun that escapes from the universe to live on Earth. there is blanket covered hope that has died in dirt, in rocks painted with east coast. the more stars we let go, the more we find. the more wars we survive, the more we unsee the horrors in ourselves. 
          
          the constellations of violets and the collected earth of the stars all synchronise with one another; the bruises like jewels that decorate the knuckles. 
          
          let yourself be consumed by another dynasty, carved into a delicate alabaster of history, like the bones that are formed into galaxies of the soil away from a body of clay and the sun that spills itself into the jugular vein, aside from the horizon's gaze. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (21st October 2021) 
          
          in the extinct field of companionship, the sun lingers closer towards its dry veins, in the intense kicks of homesickness. contaminated laws and deserted rules wrap around the resident fear; suffocation pressing down upon the disquiet throat. 
          
          where there is solitude, there is loneliness; and an escape from the poisoned apple is only but a bite of it. the sky swallows the consciousness, the screaming prevalent of the moon, of the crying of its bare existence. the well stares at the violent emotion, the enchantment of life, far from itself, into the horizon. 
          
          as children, as innocent droplets of rainfall, all they sweetly devour is the fall; the drop, the crash. the aura of the water glazed grass, the poetry of the winter dressed maiden, the sorrows of the nightingales' tale, the quivering of the sea kelps running dry. to them, like the pleasant alphabets of letters, life is only beautiful, no matter how many clouds form. 
          
          then, one ponders, what changes as we grow? all world becomes is a harbour of endless crucifixion. with that in mind, the sun has been straining itself for generations, glowing and glowing. has it not suffered the negativity? why has it remained fixed like a cemetery? 
          
          life is incredibly dark; like winter has struck for an eternity. however, does winter not have warm mugs of coffee and chestnut lollies? stretched hours and rivers of snowflake crystals? dampened cheeks and swollen tulips?
          
          there is beauty everywhere to an eye that searches. like the child that digs through the surface with fingers ageless. and the sun that peeks through the alleys of ghosted towns.
          
          have you lost yourself in the wound, gaping and huge? allow the sun, the warrior, to breathe into you soft precautions. allow it to fold the wound into a gleaming sunset, like the one it makes with the sky. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (20th October 2021) 
          
          the sun is a creature of the resurrected sea; of the winds that had their voices surrendered to the chrysanthemum wings. the jasmines of the lost dictionaries like unbelievers from the stories of the Holy books. the clear distinction of the heirs from the poignant misadventures; a thread of moist victory. 
          
          and the moon is but a maiden of the bedouins, fueled with marbled rain. it appears as it wishes, in cracked promises of blue or in snowballed dates of palms. in it, everything of life is appreciated. the spikes of deserts and the ugliness of the doves of the soil. but in the cold, in its weather, there is no renaissance. it neglects the one who suffers from the ice; their cries deaf to its crooked smile. 
          
          the night swallows the moon, like the earth bones of the survivors. the sun manages to flip within the dusky sky and retain its tenderness, its colour. roads can be hauled away like tides, and emotions can be wrung about starlight. 
          
          the world is a mesh, one that filters through every ache. if you wish to survive, burn in yourself, light the moon up for fire. the sun lives because it burns passionately, no truce allowed. to live, one must be of the dying, if not the dead. 
          
          therefore the sun sinks into your horizon dripping with vermillion shadows, carves dreams from the dead stones and travels into your mind like the greasy marmalade stuck in your throat. 
          
          gather yourself and burn. the world fears the fire and the dying breath; like the branches that cover the sky after the sun. maintain the balance, burn and glow just as the sun. and ignite your darkness with the ashes, just like moon that reflects in your blood. 
           #adropofhumanity