Cutting through the sky in the fleeting embers, pools and tears of vermillion fire beset by the old, stagnant edge. Whispers of the soul in the afterglow shells of the ether, once they appear, once they fade into memory.

The hilltop caresses the sky with passion of a ghostly air. Silent, unwavering, understanding. The plight is as loud as thunder, yet with not the verve to incite smoldering nations. The meeting catches the wind in a gentle tryst, voices of the avians only color the distance of edge and time between. Youthful firelight feathers lap at the ancient purples in the colder reaches, setting the whispering spirits, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to speak aflame with clarity.

Wind hums through the dark iridescence of the lane, verdant bark and shattered stone heralding the path along which the souls treaded a thousand times in a breath of air. The shred of time to catch a glimpse of the ancient fires. The stagnation beneath them, heavenward their silence carries to the conical focuses and sinews; tethers of power to bind the reason of the world together.

Turning, vermillion flames stretching the whiskers of white clouds, travellers in the unending circle.

Life’s breath is taken, and you can finally blink.

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Some older abstract writing.