Could I be this lucky, this drop of life beneath the darkest pinhole sky. Look up and tell me of wealth, breathe in and expel the myths of fortunate kings. This capture and keep mentality how it drowns the bravest voice. 

This moment will pass too soon, but it lives long enough to be painted by this novice hand. How could I not be moved. Amongst this emerald dream I am the curious being, the outsider looking in. 

From a book of lines I captured time in the shade of morning’s forgiving light as dandelion clocks took flight. I planted thoughts beneath the ground and gave them room to exhale, that they might grow when I move on. 
What more could I possibly ask for,  here where the last blossoms fall like wishes from the lips of time. Short lived but irreplaceable, like a night in the woods. 

Even after the dust settled the battle raged on relentlessly, sometimes it came in whispers, but it always came. I stayed too long and watched love turn into something I no longer recognised. At the back of my mind the “what ifs” still plague me, but they can’t sustain.

Indecision has drained me dry, where inspiration once grew in abundance I now cling to the fresh shoots that offer another route. The spaces in my soul will always be a home for the shapes you painted in my life.

Of all the things I wish you, happiness is at the forefront. That what’s ahead brings you peace of mind and a love for life.

Perfect silence the allure of isolation in nature’s hands. Alone in the half-light in dusks approach, my lungs filled with whispers for this familiar place. 

Everything that grows here has a beginning, a seed planted in the past. It’s canopy the solar cell feeding roots, filtered and stored. 

Even in decomposition life finds a way here, uprooted grandeur still stretched towards the light. A century of memories silently falling.

On the pages where worlds unfold lies a forgotten history. How those stories we love have a backdrop of the greatest wonder. 

It ended as it always would. Without protest or a will to continue. What couldn’t be changed still the core of all doubt. Not a desolate place, but empty of warmth. A door closed….and an echo of its closing the only recollection.

It’s not enough. It’s the scraps being thrown to the grateful beast, barely alive, but kept close at hand by hunger alone. Survival and starvation at odds, motivational extremes. I can’t survive this, I can’t stay intact and remain in this bubble.