Mossed old paths
Wonderful use of words by a talented writer. Please read.
Let my hair down, look up and flutter my lashes. There’s a quest down there, eerie silence and sound of running water. Calloused feet palms walking naked on mossed old paths. A fallen piece of bark which hosts today’s termite dining. Infected mucous in the lower bark with a sense of misjudgement.
There’s water running down the stacks of stones, trickling down from nooks and revealing itself in broad daylight filtered by a canopy of Leaves. It creeps gently while swaying the peripheral algae, I feel the coolness. A shiver down my spine’s brink.
Eyes blinking from above, a flicker here, a giggle there. Chipped off big rocks lined vertically, a lean can bury you deep down into spongy earth. Vines with white small flowers curl about banyan roots, weeds with lilac stare silently patient for acknowledgment.
A crackle of thunder, white heavy cold hail like pearls in the desert…
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