Crispy Creme
I see the horizon in the distance; a crisp image of what is yet to come. The clouds play like laces in the wind, pointing towards the low slopes of distant grassy hills.
I stand alone, back to the wind, weaponless, with only my words to carry me like wings over this vast basin of dreams. They bubble up in my throat, as if waiting to be vommited out from my heart; a stream of intense creation flowing into the setting sun.
My body is but a vassal for my soul, my eyes but the image of my spirit. If words come from my heart then my voice is useless; only hands can cultivate. My hands can only tame this eruption of words.
And yet I am still, my hands are at my sides, limp, my eyes are wide open to the setting sun. My heart has stopped.
Can love really make time stand still, or will these words escape me like children at play?
My hands are my butterfly nets, my words are my butterflies.
Delude me not until my dreams consume, decieve me not for fear my dreams are doomed.
dis is wat happens when i read. must eat now. me is hungee. CYA! =P
