Muses
Among the Deep Blue sky, the clouds astir, brightening the landscape, but shading it still. The heaps of cold Rocky loam lay bare, staring her back, as she stares at them. The leaves scintillating beams of sweet yellow & green bliss, passing her along the stories, the sun had read. Her vision simmering to the summit betwixt the ice, Its colour, she could almost mistake it for the clouds that swim just above, in the Oceans of Blue. The miles of distance, between her and the zenith, refract into a blur, veneering the real elevation at stake. The esker her feet find below her, inviting her with the gratitude to embrace, this Denouement of all the allure, all these agents of Nature afford. The culmination of the Pieces of Puzzle, tranquillise the obscene in her soul. In the Middle of the Trenches of rocks that sit, on this great green earth, carrying no labels & tags to differ, from the many other valleys alike the one in her eyes, the Idea of stumbling, to the perfect place to be Lost, allowed for a more equipped discovery, of the Landscapes within. The Picture that that our soul craves, to fill the holes in our own Imaginations, for they too seek, to feel as real as them, the images we so desperately wander to locate. The origins, of The concepts, we need to complete, our own attempts of materialising these visions into, structured layers of paint on our own form of canvas, The Genesis & the Triumph, both spiring from the same Landscape. That Landscape is always within us, tucked In an unlabelled corner, like the many corners akin. The Journey, you see, isn’t for the Mountains of Ice, or the Pretty tall Trees, or the Clouds floating in the Sky, the search is for the Cliff, that enables its fruition, that allows the View, for you are not Destined for the Summits in the snow, but for the Perch where you can stand and glare, at the serenity of it all. The Aqueducts of our own souls run much deeper than that of the earth, holding endless possibilities of creation, For we are the only Celestials in flesh, the other Divinities have yet to be apprised. The many Pathways we take to find the entities to inspire us, are all actually visceral, all we have to find is the Spot to look within. From time to time, we have to wander off, like the Little Girl in the Trails, to grasp the Ethereal, the Element, the Cosmic, the Art. We are Art. We inspire ourselves.
Among the Deep Blue sky, the clouds astir, brightening the landscape, but shading it still. The heaps of cold Rocky loam lay bare, staring her back, as she stares at them. The leaves scintillating beams of sweet yellow & green bliss, passing her along the stories, the sun had read. Her vision simmering to the summit betwixt the ice, Its colour, she could almost mistake it for the clouds that swim just above, in the Oceans of Blue. The miles of distance, between her and the zenith, refract into a blur, veneering the real elevation at stake. The esker her feet find below her, inviting her with the gratitude to embrace, this Denouement of all the allure, all these agents of Nature afford. The culmination of the Pieces of Puzzle, tranquillise the obscene in her soul. In the Middle of the Trenches of rocks that sit, on this great green earth, carrying no labels & tags to differ, from the many other valleys alike the one in her eyes, the Idea of stumbling, to the perfect place to be Lost, allowed for a more equipped discovery, of the Landscapes within. The Picture that that our soul craves, to fill the holes in our own Imaginations, for they too seek, to feel as real as them, the images we so desperately wander to locate. The origins, of The concepts, we need to complete, our own attempts of materialising these visions into, structured layers of paint on our own form of canvas, The Genesis & the Triumph, both spiring from the same Landscape. That Landscape is always within us, tucked In an unlabelled corner, like the many corners akin. The Journey, you see, isn’t for the Mountains of Ice, or the Pretty tall Trees, or the Clouds floating in the Sky, the search is for the Cliff, that enables its fruition, that allows the View, for you are not Destined for the Summits in the snow, but for the Perch where you can stand and glare, at the serenity of it all. The Aqueducts of our own souls run much deeper than that of the earth, holding endless possibilities of creation, For we are the only Celestials in flesh, the other Divinities have yet to be apprised. The many Pathways we take to find the entities to inspire us, are all actually visceral, all we have to find is the Spot to look within. From time to time, we have to wander off, like the Little Girl in the Trails, to grasp the Ethereal, the Element, the Cosmic, the Art. We are Art. We inspire ourselves.
Among the Deep Blue sky, the clouds astir, brightening the landscape, but shading it still. The heaps of cold Rocky loam lay bare, staring her back, as she stares at them. The leaves scintillating beams of sweet yellow & green bliss, passing her along the stories, the sun had read. Her vision simmering to the summit betwixt the ice, Its colour, she could almost mistake it for the clouds that swim just above, in the Oceans of Blue. The miles of distance, between her and the zenith, refract into a blur, veneering the real elevation at stake. The esker her feet find below her, inviting her with the gratitude to embrace, this Denouement of all the allure, all these agents of Nature afford. The culmination of the Pieces of Puzzle, tranquillise the obscene in her soul. In the Middle of the Trenches of rocks that sit, on this great green earth, carrying no labels & tags to differ, from the many other valleys alike the one in her eyes, the Idea of stumbling, to the perfect place to be Lost, allowed for a more equipped discovery, of the Landscapes within. The Picture that that our soul craves, to fill the holes in our own Imaginations, for they too seek, to feel as real as them, the images we so desperately wander to locate. The origins, of The concepts, we need to complete, our own attempts of materialising these visions into, structured layers of paint on our own form of canvas, The Genesis & the Triumph, both spiring from the same Landscape. That Landscape is always within us, tucked In an unlabelled corner, like the many corners akin. The Journey, you see, isn’t for the Mountains of Ice, or the Pretty tall Trees, or the Clouds floating in the Sky, the search is for the Cliff, that enables its fruition, that allows the View, for you are not Destined for the Summits in the snow, but for the Perch where you can stand and glare, at the serenity of it all. The Aqueducts of our own souls run much deeper than that of the earth, holding endless possibilities of creation, For we are the only Celestials in flesh, the other Divinities have yet to be apprised. The many Pathways we take to find the entities to inspire us, are all actually visceral, all we have to find is the Spot to look within. From time to time, we have to wander off, like the Little Girl in the Trails, to grasp the Ethereal, the Element, the Cosmic, the Art. We are Art. We inspire ourselves.
