Life, budding from the stoic ground, or so it would seem. But beneath her surface, goodness, virtue, and sustenance teem. ****** soil, mother of all things. Come to be stained with blood and ambiguity. Will we last the day? What would you have left to say? What will you do with your numbered days, your breaths, your words Before you go to feed the worms?
Something I wouldn't ordinarily share due to its simplicity, but there you go. :)