Though darkness sweeps hard against the rigid spine, I will not void the tresspass, I shall summit the mountain. If by the grace of ghosts, the light cannot see without reflection. I cup the water in shaky hands, as the morning broods awake. The slow release of time comforts the final steps, to move with accord of what flows through the wind, as no divide exists, beyond memory, time is without shackles. The moon carries over the tide, weak and weary I rest atop with angels. I never saw such dreams as vivid as the moment I stopped to see the world as it is, as it was, as it will be, with or without me.

– Josh Fleming

Image by: Lukas Furlan


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