Morning Snow. (Prose)

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.

ยฉ 2019 All Rights Reserved.

10 thoughts on “Morning Snow. (Prose)”

    1. Thank you! ๐Ÿ˜€ 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.

      Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s