Summer night misters tip their hats at warm, toasted spirits while tall grasses sing the blues to hide away lovers laying ‘bout and saying nothing, pointing at the sky and tickin’ off stars like they was minutes to the universe.
That’s god stuff, that.
It’s gold and copper and iron fists scattered.
All that divine dust garters up ‘round Shenandoah and bellows blows of tip tap, rat-tat, and oompah from hornful souls whizzing by in frightful gulps of humid, southern laughs that reach up and graze that pale-blue…that lusty…that ancient bulb of hope.
There ain’t no heroic beasts left in this land. I became their god when they’d gone.
The brightest of ‘em all got tired long ago and went to sleep for ages to let the world tick on.
About the Creator
Casia
Storytelling is the most powerful tool in history and herstory. In it, I find respite for the heavy soul, passion for the lackluster spirit, forgivness for the guilty and justice for the disheartened. There is no greater pain nor pleasure.
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