There is a place.
It is bright in memory
and living in stride.
When you close your eyes
you are there.
You can reach out
and brush your palms
against the bristle
of a soft stalk.
Lace your fingers into the weave,
twine the bristle around
your index finger,
and rip it from its hold.
You can close your heavy eyelids
and feel the radiance of the sun;
breath in summer, salt, and serenity.
You can watch as the light shifts iridescent,
brushing against the pillowed clouds
and sifting across the ocean.
You can see,
playing among the hills,
homes and lives
all intertwined.
infront of you
you can feel a smile,
a tangible love
hung between you.
Bright as a memory
radiant as the warmth
soft as a bristle.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
There is a place.
It is bright in memory
and living in stride.
When you close your eyes
you are there.
You can reach out
and brush your palms
against the bristle
of a soft stalk.
Lace your fingers into the weave,
twine the bristle around
your index finger,
and rip it from its hold.
You can close your heavy eyelids
and feel the radiance of the sun;
breath in summer, salt, and serenity.
You can watch as the light shifts iridescent,
brushing against the pillowed clouds
and sifting across the ocean.
You can see,
playing among the hills,
homes and lives
all intertwined.
infront of you
you can feel a smile,
a tangible love
hung between you.
Bright as a memory
radiant as the warmth
soft as a bristle.
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