(no subject)

[shapeofthings]

I am writing again.

Small, delicate things. Translucent shells of meaning that curl, fragile, in your palm.
Pebbles of expression, worn smooth by the passage of life, immutable as the river
Singing its cadence to the sea. A single sigh, echo lingering, of my voice.

Perhaps there shall be landscapes of language carried within me once more,
Should I nurture these delicate seeds of verbosity, 'til towering giants rise,
Seeking light in my dreaming, a canopy of cacophony.

Wisps of words swirl gently, curling as fog in the low morning light,
Rising above the river running through my soul, to burn away
And drift, invisible, to the ever-endless sky.