Rain falls from the heavens.
Tears of angelic touch run from my palms,
blessing my simple existence.
What grace befalls the porcelain of face.
The mask that is emotion, singular. Sprinkled with light flecks of dew,
nourishing the forest of self.
To believe in everything and nothing is the joy of freedom.
The joy of a mind that functions like a parachute.
Which chamber of my heart speaks to you of liberation?
Is it still the child inside that wonders?
About the Creator
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