A drop of sunlight in the shape of a cherry blossom tear melts scar-tissue without resistance. Liquid illumination oils the coils of a rusted-flesh perpetual machine. The tiniest trickle gushes across gridlocked gears, giving way to a geyser of gratitude. The warmth of a thousand tiny embers showers the skies. The result of the patience of a month, and an order of magnitude.
When is a droplet an ocean?
When it slakes a sea of sand.
Not because it quenches the thirst of the parched and dying man.
But because it restores desiccated hope.
8:38 p.m. - 2015-02-23
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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