Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~ William Wordsworth
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
The secret atop the hill
The eerie halo, blanketing the sacred ruins atop the hill, is torn apart by fluorescent flickers on moonless nights. Faint, almost like an illusion. Imaginations conjure bygone romances to life; reality, wizened manuses of a priest. Temple-tales weave themselves into our eventides.