Happy Weekend love bugs,
The sun crawls in, the poet sheds his shelter, the puppy rolls by clover. The smell of fresh bread enchants the baker's spout while the boy with lazy bones sighs for slumber. Today is Saturday. The sky is special, and causing happy spells, while it scatters beams of heaven onto my lips. All that grows blue inside of my brain is rejected when Summer dances. With such pleasant weather, it seems trite to choose suffering. As my fingers press for juices in a lemon, and my eyes wander over wagon wheels, I sing the birds song.
The sun crawls in, the poet sheds his shelter, the puppy rolls by clover. The smell of fresh bread enchants the baker's spout while the boy with lazy bones sighs for slumber. Today is Saturday. The sky is special, and causing happy spells, while it scatters beams of heaven onto my lips. All that grows blue inside of my brain is rejected when Summer dances. With such pleasant weather, it seems trite to choose suffering. As my fingers press for juices in a lemon, and my eyes wander over wagon wheels, I sing the birds song.
I sit here with cravings. Cravings for the countryside, and the mountain brow, Cravings for the wild rock, and the shapely river. I am dreaming of my backside attached to an airplane. I want to lend my hair to the ocean, while leaning towards sea creatures. I want maps to lead me passed strangers, and even stranger languages. I want to soften my shoes. I want to trip on foreign pebbles, and lick the plates of foreign food. Beside the winter wood, I was born with a restless bag of bones. I am not built for the simpleton gatherings, or the daily commute. I am garden bound.
There are faraway lands I wish to comfort. There are moons I wish to coil. There are warm photographs of long-mane girls in flower gowns, I wish to become. I watch the slides of my Mother's day. When the world was unbroken, and the girls dressed in garden splattered cloth. Days of yore photographs seduce those who dream in flowers. How the, now vintage, fabric dance with the bodies of the frame.
I can't play magic, and swing myself into the days of grooving. But I can, however, wear the cloths of Yesteryear. A dress made of blooming petals, and 70's sentiments, causes me to become the long-mane girl dressed in the flower gown. This dress, sent kindly from online vintage store Ravenous Creatures --is the chime of my closet. The dress was tucked into a parcel, and caught my eyes two days ago. The cloth is soft, like lamb fur, and the colors dance like a merry-go round. As I pull the frock over my frame, I am caught, caught by the magical tide. It's not often a dress can make you feel like home. But here, this posy-plucked uniform, tickles my spine, and brings me closer to the days of peace fingers, and radio you can sing to.
I can't play magic, and swing myself into the days of grooving. But I can, however, wear the cloths of Yesteryear. A dress made of blooming petals, and 70's sentiments, causes me to become the long-mane girl dressed in the flower gown. This dress, sent kindly from online vintage store Ravenous Creatures --is the chime of my closet. The dress was tucked into a parcel, and caught my eyes two days ago. The cloth is soft, like lamb fur, and the colors dance like a merry-go round. As I pull the frock over my frame, I am caught, caught by the magical tide. It's not often a dress can make you feel like home. But here, this posy-plucked uniform, tickles my spine, and brings me closer to the days of peace fingers, and radio you can sing to.
Yesterday, Elizabeth(my peachy cousin), and the cinnamon boy stepped into the flower-decorated, water fountain sparkling, grassy park of Central Memorial. The park is located in the pulse of the downtown. On the corner, there sits an ancient library, and sightly trees to snag your gaze. The Park is a place to kiss the sunshine, and point your toes above water fountains.
Thank you for lending your eyes.
"Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?" *Emily Bronte*
what i wore