Clouds speak a language.
A liquid flowing thing.
An exquisite utterance.
Beholden by none other.
Fortunate am I,
To exist in this planet,
With the herald of voices,
From the beasts above.
Fortune aside,
Of that innate humanity of mine.
That heavenly tongue,
Seems nothing but a serpentine jumble.
And still I can do nothing but wonder,
At this spectacle divine.
YOU ARE READING
Reminiscent: A Collection
Short StoryHi, I'm a writer that tends to work on bigger writing projects, but occasionally I get little things out. This is a place for me to share those little tidbits of writing and I also tend to share the scripts for my speeches too. I hope you enjoy thes...
