09.April.25

Indeed, there was that man who had coloured canvases with his happy brush, scenes grand in their simple ease. Here, the inspiration cried between growls and, as well, belted warnings to exposed skin. Traveller, teetering between the two, benched booming beauty for some breaths in order to let light limn a trace on the back of each palpebra as senses bathed in screams and stings. In that ephemeral outlet, they realised magnificence lived not outside of them, but in the way their wonder welcomed. ; )

08.April.25

Sophie had just espied, upon Nepali guide,

Fixed in up-braided hair, a shiny porte-bonheur

Of maneki-neko a la full art deco,

So, instead of a plea, she pounce-jumped from the tree

Right onto lady’s head, whose face was now burnt red—

In surprise, not of ire, at face hug from fox-fire,

Which is why when she found her clip had fell to ground,

‘Twas not returned to top, but to agent of flop,

Who had made a new friend instead of a ‘the end’. ; )

07.April.25

Alas, Hazel was certain *this* tree was the one by which she had buried her acorns, but they still remained unfound. Roots were as she remembered and markings on the trunk were familiar too. Even the ground was undisturbed—or, at least, left no evidence of a past peculation. Where could be her treasures? She was not looking for a needle—she was *being* needled—by every point in the history of heeded haysels harassed. ; )

06.April.25

What had lea’s grandfather created? With both arms and concoction’s smoke rising towards heaven, even the wind’s wailing had quieted to a whisper in awe of horizon’s imposing silhouette. Petals, then, began to ponder their purpose in the periphery of such power, not realizing their thoughts were enough—for as denizens of Earth’s antichthon, their sentience, only possibly imagined outside of their field, served the swevens in which neighbouring other wonderers lived. ; )