Beatitude. A poem.

Salt-filled streams in cotton valleys, stuttered remnants of hazy fantasia. Every shed raindrop that stains this silky, cloud-like tundra, is just another overture to redeem my lonesome, enervated soul; another blatant and monotonous attempt at constructing a beatitude of nearsighted ardour. How I long to love thee, to trade this near-infinite sadness for a longContinue reading “Beatitude. A poem.”