A stretch of highway in Pennsylvania wore a mantle of pure blackness.
Fear took hold of me.
Wisps of fog were bitter ghosts,
Skittering leaves were mischievous creatures,
Gusts of wind were shouts of fury.
But I remembered the shooting star a few miles back
And everything changed.
Every inch of darkness became an opportunity for fleeting beauty, again.
1 comment:
a poetic journalist??
unfathomable! =)
Lovely imagery, friend.
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