Sense is the seeing, believing, the touching, tasting, the being
The slopes that rise and fall With our breath between them Are a sihloutte of green hips On the horizon: Suspended across the skies In an effortless sprawl, They are wild thighs To the wondering mind As a pen is to paper The incarnation of daydreams.
Originally posted on Creative Mine:
I tell ya, after 37 years on the force, you think nothing can really surprise you anymore. You start getting comfortable in your desk chair, waiting for the next call to come in. Couple homicides before lunch. Enjoy a minestrone while catching up on the news for an hour. Maybe…
We pepper our words for the common feast
Originally posted on Allison's Blog:
When I write anything I publish, I like to envision us in a boat, on a smooth luscious river where it’s velvety and steady, or seated together where I’m using decadent thick paint to tell a story in multiple colours, affecting textures across a canvas. But today, my quill…
Did you ever take a breath to inhale the harmony of 200 hearts in transit, beating between old-beninngings and new-ends?
Matter born of mind is never strictly unnatural