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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Deeper and deeper

Photo by Julian Böck on Unsplash

The water has gone round and round…
From our fall
rainbows in the splash
to be so close
to the pain, to the fear
And stay in the calm of nowhere.

There are no words, no laughter, no resentment.
No place for indifference
or passion.
We, as guests,
Surely shall not be bored here;
How the sleeping one can be bored?

The names are silently rippling…
Is there any sense in the reflections?
But the depth is silent.
We swim in the world of sleep,
Our life is but a slip
Through words arranged in rows.

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