writer-artist-thinker-reader

Sparking about Exploding begins Imploding down Smoking around Darkening ascends Dying flames Shining begins Disappearing near Floating between Illuminating starts
Planes fly high in the sky, And insects fly far below the clouds, But horizontal rain slicing through the air Smells better than thunderous crowds. The lightning rods on the houses, Are decorative as can be, But not as pretty as the crows, That sit on the edges of the magic tree, Buildings loom in
Know yourself what you will do for others in unrest who call you a shrew. Know them what they do for they are lost with much to eschew.
The tiny cracks too small for the eye to see, too insignificant for anyone to care. When the instrument arrives, only a few will take notice of the fault line. No one believes for long it will happen, and when it opens, they start to blame. The tiny fragile ones seem to notice, they hear
That sweet butter, melted that drips from the corn, onto the chin, and onto the napkin: the non-descript white one placed carefully in your lap. There’s no way it will hold ten or more drops. seeping through it. They claim it should suffice and after you are done eating the kernels like a typewriter moves,

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