far away
Maybe heaven isn’t in a cloud
It’s down here with you
Far away
Maybe heaven isn’t in high up and in space
Maybe we’re trying
But we’re stuck in a loop
Pixie with painted hips
Shrugs and kisses away your bliss
Blues are a designed symbol of life’s rotting undercarriage
Of a golden, gleaming shell,
Maybe blues live in a cloud
And rain down on us all
To disperse it in little ways
Or flood others,
Far away from painted windows
I live in one of your big blue tears,
Droplet, perfect, a bubble
A nebulous, neglected, blue turquoise
Gloss,
Everything is fine as I breathe in your eye river,
It’s like heaven
And everything is fine
About the Creator
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More stories from Melissa Ingoldsby and writers in Poets and other communities.
Affection and Healing for Yourself
During the night of the last quarter moon, I gathered my ritual supplies. I carefully handled the chunk of black tourmaline that would protect me from your overall negative and narcissistic energy. I carefully walked the house with my stick of selenite in hand, asking the universe to cleanse our working space.
By Alisha Wilkins ✒️🦋🖋️a day ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Wow! So fluffy and light with a storm cloud intensity all at once! And the line "Blues are a designed symbol of life’s rotting undercarriage" so perfectly eloquent!