August

A Poem By Flying Past Clouds // 6/1/2015

The sun splashed on the walls tells of afternoon, but I pretend it is morning, and in this fantasy world I have just woken. In both worlds, I am surrounded by warmth in its purist sense - not like the sticky-hot late summer humidity outside, but warmth much like that an infant feels when it's swaddled in a blanket. I have allowed myself to become vulnerable, and, in this moment, I feel happy in this simplicity. Hope drums in my veins of what spectacular sensations the future must have for me, as I ride the waves of my excitement of the last hurrah before I must return to schoolwork and studies. I daydream of sugarplums and happiness and vulnerability in a comforting sense that I can share my secrets with someone else.
I feel colors bubbling at my lips, spewing out in a Morse code of excitement and soft, tender emotion. My blood is a million rainbows, my eyes see shades I never knew existed. A last good meal before heading out on what I didn't know would be a long, starved journey.
The sky is a brilliant blue as two children carve infinity into an oak tree.
The sun smiles on a last burst of innocence.

Navigation

User login

Please read this before creating a new account.