In the midst of a cloudy year,
we write to our spirits and ask for salvation.
Blind to the beauty that prances around us,
waiting for any sign or life within us.
We send letters to our minds,
pleading for it to write us back somehow, someway.
Time smiles at us, while we yearn for time to end itself,
and melt away like the beautiful things we once knew.
with every word spelled out
onto worn peices of paper,
we heal ourselves.
Beauty running through our fingers,
into the very pen that allows us to liberate ourselves
and create a world we had not seen before.
A world that turns everything we see into a cinematic background,
with flowers that dance between the concrete,
birds that perform charming ballads each morning,
and a sun that sleeps gracefully amung the clouds.
Each poem written,
our eyes transform little by little,
eventually being able to see,
that absolutely everything is beauiful.