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SwallowtailThick heat pressed on her bare shoulders scarring them with speckled waves. Shadows cast on the soft grass were of no consolation; the towering oaks raisined with substantial pity. There was no evasion from the day, but only envisage of a bracing sunset for even the flowers knew the respite’s healing powers, and they awaited its arrival through each gradual refinement. They could feel the gentle touch of the swallowtail as its wings grazed the still air.Swallowtail
Her eyes sunk, tracing the erratic trail of the little butterfly, hoping its travel may guide her back to him. But if it could, she wouldn’t have the comfort to
by ~ms-nostalgia
english free-writeStop waking up and fall asleep to the sound of birds calling outside where the wind blows for centuries in the darkened classroom outside the windowpane A house made of fieldstone atop a field of corn in the noonday sun make the summer sweet as the lemonade and the pictures that adorn the desktop They are to be remembered amongst the keepsakes we gather from the many roads we walk in awe.english free-write
by ~ms-nostalgia
simplicityThe way his cheeks hugged his smile with a laughter the years could never change; his eyes beat with the glisten of sunrise and the warm comfort of his morning coffee.simplicity
by ~ms-nostalgia
February 1, 2009. 12:28 amTo write well, for one, is to write with no restraints, no restrictions. to write without our mind while instead our heart holds the pen. to all that is equal amongst prior knowledge and self control- whether all makes sense- or if sense would be nothing but an aspect, a-speck on a flower, fielded deep within the comforts of its own. my hand is not credited with brilliance nor strange yet it aches with a pain of recognition within a sullen scene. the night that fell so soft and serene. the love that held no more secrets to tell. And with that an end rhyme, a syllable to share, some couplets thrown in, but pulled straight from thin air. WhetheFebruary 1, 2009. 12:28 am
by ~ms-nostalgia
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