Which allows itself
To seem small
So that its setting
In all its glory
Becomes the tale
So that its setting
In all its glory
Becomes the tale
Places where
I always find
The colour
I’ve been missing
Clouds
And mountains
Mingle
In a waning light
The camera records
As a monochrome
The world settles into an armchair
At the end of a long day
Breathes a sigh
Takes a long draw from the wineglass
And lets the worries drift away
So I breathe
Let go the thoughts
Dispelling
The chaos
Until I am conscious
Only of being
I will wash away
The tears of my last failure
And gather myself up
To have another go
No more forward looking
No more anticipation
But for the threshold
And my own bed
it said, in a staccato burst of bold white stencils the building’s entire length. Eight windows sheathed in brown plywood, each with a stencil, right in the center.
A stencil, and bills. A few, or a pattern of eight or more. Posters posted over the admonition, over the order, “POST NO BILLS”.
She found that sad
The world was a more beautiful place
When magical creatures danced
A shame no one else knew the magic