There is little to me as precious as you,
But still let me try to name a few.
A rose petal touched by morning dew,
The first glimpse of light from sunrise-new.
The smell of the earth just before rain,
The very first sip of vintage champagne.
The memory a well-timed photo took,
The last read page of a very good book.
The Autumn-red leaves on an old maple tree,
The steam from a freshly brewed hot pot of tea.
All little things that make life divine,
But nothing compared to you, Mother of mine.
About the Creator
Jessie Waddell
I have too many thoughts. I write to clear some headspace. | Instagram: @thelittlepoet_jw |
"To die, would be an awfully big adventure"—Peter Pan | Vale Tom Brad
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Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor4 days ago in Fiction
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