When I see past the clouds of dustThat form all over these partsIn those clouds are human soulsDisguising wayward hearts They think they have immunityBut
Love is a wanderer,Weary from the road.Ages old he ambles past,Back bent from its load. On the darkest paths he doth tread,And in the roaring
“Does it even matter?” “What matter?” “Any of it.” “What is ‘it’?” “Everything all around us.” ”That’s a lot of things.” “Yep.” A mosquito buzzed
A short story: He saw her before she ever knew he even existed. She carried herself with both a joy and a sadness, and he
As I walked along the earthy, well-tread path, I happened upon a tiny stone. How it caught my attention, I am still not quite sure,
Unfortunately, every story ever told and every life ever lived has pieces of sadness, some more than others. This sadness shapes our stories. Sometimes it