June 13 by The Running Son
☜ remember the sound ☞
Remember the sound
of the last life you said
I met you in? Remember
the sweet sound of us, founding us?
And the motherly and blue star-crossed
care for eyes, that last time
near great ledges, swallowing air?
We had no fear. We were children
playing chicken, tickling
with color palettes
tired and sleeping sages.
by Jim Aldrich
adapted from “ÐÂnte‘š Ϝire उ̍̉”.
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.