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.

An Epiphany of Time and Bright Lights

There’s something in the air this morning.

A kind of glittering hope that only lives among the bright, moving images and opaque air of New York City;

the slither of silver, on grey, rain-ridden clouds.

There’s something quite magical about the sound of moving life against the azure blue sky.

‘Tis a reminder of why one must believe in one’s illusions, despite the eb and flow of mundane life—even though life is anything but mundane.

There’s something in the air this morning and I’m not quite sure what it is.