A breeze washed over the shivering hills allowing them to rise and fall like a mother's gentle hush Quieting the sun-rays to curl within the drops of dew and nestle atop the tree scratching flight upon a beating butterfly and dispersing amongst spinning auburn creeks. The wind gently tugged at a mass of wild hair Strays unraveling as invisible fingertips danced through the songbirds lullaby. Fingers lost in buttercup sand eyes merely resting where the sky meets the earth laughing in colorful shades and spinning in the watery sunset. I have found happiness.
The storyteller is lost in us Don't ask me where he went I see his traces in the words you write But his power is truly spent And all I see now is meaningless Words made simply for the thrill Belted out by a literary killer Monster, looking for a fill.