Autumn Leaves

She sits upon the turbulent winds of time,

waiting to be carried to the astronomical heights of dead balls of gas.

In the meantime, her crumbling flesh must remain a ragdoll to the ever-changing storm.

Tranquil. Open and free from the ancient, decaying branches of the tree.

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Water

It falls, it rests, flows.

Too magical for language.

Breathe in, drink up. Live.