To dream is to waken inside a world fully is is filled and all fruits it bears so Pomona with a basket in her arms

plentiful as moss is a whole forest suffices to answering her whispers gathering new strength she reaches forward and loosening the footsteps of a word breaks from meaning the bitterest question I am alone in the harvest of hours, where have all my people gone to wander? blossoms and tendrils hope springs forever skipping and leaping back from the descent to expanding darkness, bipedal, bent, and gives of its soil its firmament.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful