Soft, a damp; an umber forest. a mossy way. rain; wet trickled dirt. distant ravens. boots; crispy ferns. snapping twigs. just breathe; a deep gray whisper, the irresistible scent of fern. falling back into the dark musty bristle of a bear, quickly being submerged by deep grey, smokey clouds. Look up, in the feathery pines - a flying squirrel! his eyes, lips, and spirit all at once smile saying,
"hi. little duck,"
Just a little thing I wrote a while back... makes me feel good
I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.
In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.
This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments? Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .
If I will be a tree, I will be a tall one. In this way, I can watch you down there I can watch you smile and be happy I can watch you whenever you go home sad I can watch you whenever you go home mad I can watch you over and over I can watch you until my roots die.
I carry one memory of you and me, I carry it all the way up, to the highest tree, I hang it there for you to see and falling leaves unveiling me like each apple, pear or a peach and how sweet things grow out of reach
Care to help me title this? Not sure about ‘peach’ or maybe it’s fine? Would love feedback
reach out ye white antler antennae up to the succulent sky tree teach me how to always be growing, spreading finger branches high teach me roots teach me the hidden why of the fruit of not every leaving is to die, tree reach out ye white antler antennae and blossom me into life