Withered Glory

Eyes waver in the moments of saturated thoughts. I feel evolved, yet overwhelmed by thoughts of directionless-ness, still performing magic in the absence of the true essence of beauty. In quest, I motion the saturation of an oath yet so unfulfilled in magical realism. Life has been a tree of life, like the roots, I can barely feel the branches as they reach the sky.

Maybe this, too, is why I feel opinionated by who I am versus who I am among others. Maybe mightier, they call it. I call it powerful with a Withered Glory. Sometimes I am dry; I default to unknown wings, but where is the wing I pray could carry me? Like an old stool, still looking for its shelter, sometimes I also crave that sense of shelter of arms around me that truly care about the world I/ we/us/theirs want to create, especially us. Maybe this “us” is what makes everything a confused land to bear its fruits.

To let go of something so beautiful would be selfish, but not enough to love oneself. Sometimes that’s what it takes to truly realize that love is the giver of all perfections of imperfections. The interest of someone getting to know every ache and soul, scars, tears, and still see you for your todays, not yesterdays, past but the bit of everything in the NOW. This is the moment of beauty in the eyes of the soul that never lets go of the kisses it formed. The eyes that spoke without seasonings, the walks that made fashion glimmer, and the stars that spoke dreams. This love too exists.

This is to what Withered Glory became a soul of the perfect present. This is to all questionable answers that already exist. This is to the LOVE OF ALL AND EVERYTHING. We are everything. The love that bowed to the Sun of the Flower.