“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – Emily Dickinson
Step into the unknown, Out Of habit, Stretch and Walk, free of your own Will, out into the wide world
He had turned his father’s labor into art. The beauty of his carvings gathered fame. People travelled from all over the country to see him at work. There was grace and beauty in all his gestures. His moves were so soft and swift, it looked as if he were dancing.
She is opening doors. A few adventurers are walking in. She is sending faulty ropes for them to grasp and mend, The only way to climb up to her stair-less high porch.
During winter, we often feel cold in our bodies and in our hearts. Overwhelmed and exhausted by our environment.
Keys turned in the lock. He walked in, and shed his coat and jacket in the lobby. Then he eyed his flat. Soulless, nude space, open lines, cold, empty walls, uplifted only by the view, and the grey light filtering through the high windows.
Trapped, hands tied, mouth taped, Slowly I grasp consciousness I open my eyes, Discover a den – Earthen ground, soiled sheets undone On a dirty bed.
Winter cold biting At my lips – prickling skin sends Shivers down my spine On and on I walk Numbed – I let frozen air in Filling up my lungs
Vapors emanate – Hot, white, smokey clouds of hope Warming up my lips.
As the Tardis lands On foreign soil, it watches. Frozen Eye stays still.
As life bustles by Under the clearest skies, Frozen I sits still.
Ethereal scene Unsullied grounds – shrinking – yet Ever-growing soul