Winsomely covets the allusion of the sea, while calmly brewing the culmination that is his herbal tea. Silently pattering the rain with its tattering, patterns around the embers and burning smolder. No obligation today truly free. In the dining room, gazing at the wet day; imaging the Petrichor. He thinks a stray thought. “Roads lead places to people, Happiness doesn’t buy flowers, where was I when the library burned down?”
Poetry
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