In the early morning hours, words fall like snow against all of the impossibilities,. Church bells ring. Its 2 a.m. Odd how the hours find the memories of frost and keats.
Sun-morning, Sun-mourning. The sky still breathes when cooling wind becomes a composition. Time holds still whilst violins echo in the beginning of a summers day.
Twilight falls. The moon carries clouds of silver threads across a black expanse of sea. Streams weave their ways to rivers and rivers to the sea. Conversations in notes yet unyielding
Medieval stones wind upon fern-covered paths; time constructing tunnels of leaves and moss. Through ancient windtunnels, your voice echoes forever upon a scale of notes.