Black valley—
a sheath of dark attar
under the fullest moon. I find so beautiful
in it’s darkening as my spirit’s rind.
Extruded by a forceful wind call,—
hoping to run into that, solely being innocence.
But is it black; liken to a colour that seems so
unclean? Washing bare hands twice; but I can’t wash what I am.
A dark masterpiece,—pretty as many flowers I am,
I am this dark flower. _I shine brightest in the dark._
Jun 21, 2022
Jun 21, 2022 at 9:53 AM UTC
Black valley—
a sheath of dark attar
under the fullest moon. I find so beautiful
in it’s darkening as my spirit’s rind.
Extruded by a forceful wind call,—
hoping to run into that, solely being innocence.
But is it black; liken to a colour that seems so
unclean? Washing bare hands twice; but I can’t wash what I am.
A dark masterpiece,—pretty as many flowers I am,
I am this dark flower. _I shine brightest in the dark._
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