Vastness.
Pure and simple tranquility.
The rush of wind between sharp, feathered wings.
Glistening eyes, fingertips running along velvet, and the glimmer of rich red wine pouring into a crystal glass.
Silence.
Not the kind that rings in your ears or makes you hear your heartbeat.
The kind that turns your attention farther than what's at your feet.
To the crickets, to the wind, to the sorrowful howling in the distance.
The kind that makes you look at your reflection and the ripples in the water and the way your hair falls in your face when you laugh.
The not-quite-emptiness of the universe that serves only to guide your attention to impossible civilization.
The long, flat, empty stretches of desert road upon which you really cannot help but step on the gas and soar.
The world may be ending, my dear, but it hasn't; not just yet.
Fly with me,
my dear.
Fly.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
