Man is but a blossom of the air held by the earth, cursed by the stars, inhaled by death; the breath and shadow of this coalition at certain times elevate him.
Our friendship is the white cloud preferred by the sun.
Our friendship is a free rind. It does not detach itself from oru heart's prowesses.
Where my spirit no longer uproots but replants and cares for, I begin to grow. Where the people's childhood begins, I love.
In the twentieth century man was at his lowest. Women became enlightened and moved about swiftly on a ledge where only our eyes had access.
To a rose I bind myself.
We are ungovernable. The only master favorable to us is Lightning who sometimes illuminates us and sometimes cleaves us.
Lightning and rose in us, in their transience, are added for our completion.
I am grass in your hand, my adolescent pyramid. I love you over your countless closed up flowers.
visual poetic prompt
[Seated Model, Partially Draped] by Nadar via The Met