These strange autumnal rains make old wounds feel new with pain. Yet the cold rain that haunts this weather, falls gently to the ground like soft feathers.
The rose garden has wilted, the petals are fully dried. The morning emptiness making a hole inside. A knot in the pit of the stomach tied way too tight, and the mind lost somewhere far behind.
Be the moon, be a child Be the kind of wolf with eyes rosy wild Be sensual, fulfilled and tenderly styled Be the infinite ocean, fiercely roaring yet softly mild.