Warm wandering soul Whispering her secrets, will, And thoughts to the wind
Her reflection cast The beauty of an old soul Long travelled and wise
Gently brushing by Her scorched skin, the winter breeze Whispers all over Her. Sore flesh. Softly Lullabies her pain away. Promises relief.
A light breeze softly Passes, lifts strands of her hair Whispers in her ears
“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
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.
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.
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