When the clock stroke eleven fifty-nine On December twenty nineteenth Less then a minute for what Would be the new norm, Who would have thought, That was the last “normal” the world would ever witness. Each passing of days, Its more challenging to live To breath, The oxygen that freely was given If humanity would practice more kindness We would be two steps forward Then centuries backwards, The last couple of days, Hesitant and pondering on what seem to be extraterrestrial, Voices...
Life is like the river, sometimes it sweeps you gently along and sometimes the rapids come out of nowhere.”―Emma Smith
she loved the river, the whispering, lisping river. there skinny-dipped under the curtain of its depths, when no one was around. fish popping out huge eyes, attracted by her nippled elegance and marvelled by her gently rippled dance.
Raindrops clung to the glass of the bus shelter. Seeds of liquid silver illuminated by the glow of the streetlights.
Mist hung suspended in the cool evening air as rain fell from the midnight sky. The pitter patter of it hitting the concrete attended the sound of your breathing.
Two hearts beat in rhythm as the world seemed to fall away. Your wet hair clung to your cheeks as you stood shivering, only inches from me. I could feel the goosebumps on your arm as my hand brushed past it.