Trip

Grass between my toes, the sound of sitars.
I sway with the breeze.
I melt with the moment becoming,
becoming.
Light, reflected through glass.
I Am, refracted.
This moment contracting, containing.
Expanding releasing.
I spiral.
I melt with the moment becoming,
becoming.

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

art of trauma
%d bloggers like this: