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Literature Text
Sequoia legs of wooden steel
Through twisted branches, narrow crags
Your cyclone heart pumps raindrop plasma
Unbending essence of the Stag
A soldier roaming winter woodlands
Snowfall cradles you with care
An acolyte of natures glory
With swift precision of the Hare
A spirit drenched in full-moon glimmer
Your coat as white as starlight's gleam
Sweet blissful lunar hymns, euphonic
The Wolf alone who haunts my dreams
Through twisted branches, narrow crags
Your cyclone heart pumps raindrop plasma
Unbending essence of the Stag
A soldier roaming winter woodlands
Snowfall cradles you with care
An acolyte of natures glory
With swift precision of the Hare
A spirit drenched in full-moon glimmer
Your coat as white as starlight's gleam
Sweet blissful lunar hymns, euphonic
The Wolf alone who haunts my dreams
Literature
Anonymity
Confusion.
Forgotten access
memories of another person
another year
another moment
in time.
Literature
november14th.
i never had an actual birthday where i could sit back and reflect on what the world has given me thus far. i've never had the teenager-themed "surprise parties" and the traditional gift-giving, pinata-hitting, pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey slash spinthebottle games that dash away reality for the given special day. sunsets and silhouette dreams that smash reality into confetti and funfetti-half ass made birthday cake with the number of ages presented into falling-apart icing. i never understood why society would celebrate a passing year when ultimately the person is getting closer to growing into obligations of responsibilities.
but for mothers
Literature
Fields and Fields and Endless Fields
He looks on across sprawling fields
of futures and possibilities.
Behind him is a pin prick--the past. The
linear thing that happened.
It's there, like a root, underground,
surrounded by dirt and worms.
It's there, bursting from seed and
pressing to the surface. Always pressing
into the fields.
The past is the root. We are the tree.
The fields make up the rest.
And the fields are where the
magic happens. They're a playground of sorts.
Full of possibilities. Governed by illusions.
Ruled by nothing that can be controlled.
Dangerous and deadly and too
big to comprehend.
So he looks across them all, fields and fields and
endle
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You get inspired when you go out to the woods. Not that I saw any of these animals for myself.... But I had powerful feelings anyways... I think nature has always been my most inspiring muse in writing.
© 2016 - 2024 LittleStarKid
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chilling.