Hair flowing in the buttressed wind,
we play with tattered, translucent shadows.
Transposed in light.
Sketched in charcoal.
Painted in watercolor.
Chiseled in clay.
Framed in beauty.

An insouciant sun.
A gentle zephyr cleansing the air.
Wildflowers that leisurely heal the soul.

Sculpted.
Carved.
Some of us etched in stone.
We are rock
until we inhale the scent of poetry
released by thinkers and dreamers
basking in the golden moonlight,
stealing the cold, silent thunder
of a turbulent sky,
each moment framed in the innocence of beauty.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Scribe

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