Thy grace be

 In the burning cauldrons,  through the humming saws,  across the poles -  wrapped in cotton and set aflame,  and in the swift strike of tyr...

Monday, June 24, 2019

Beacon

I detest the dark,
do not favor the umbra,
that somber mystique.
The rays of light beckon me,
I breathe the morning splendor.



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Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.