Primordial of the language havocs the ghost, havocs the charring wood, as it hushes the daylight by the opaque fog above a motionless hillock, and I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world, and its hoary, gentle winds during the Autumn pasture. It is the diamonds in the wood-pile, trembling with stones on the trail; It is everything to the piled snow. Dreams come, and sometimes, I miss them all the same. I go as the Autumn into the yellow roads, fairer than the stirred frost, fairer than her skin, and beyond the harvest of flowers by the morning snow.
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10 responses to “Morning Snow. (Prose)”
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Anyways, your blog seems to be growing fast! π Congrats!
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Thank you! π I’m kind of surprised at how fast it’s growing, to be honest. I haven’t been posting that much, so it baffles me! Lol. Not that I’m complaining, though. Haha.
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Lol I’m surprised, too, but it IS well-earned! Your writings are really good
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Thanks. π
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I LOVE THIS! Your writings are always deep. π
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Thank you so much! π
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No problem! You deserve it!
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Reblogged this on By the Mighty Mumford and commented:
I’D BANK…ON THIS SNOWY PROSE! EXQUISITE!
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Thank you. π
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π
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