I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.
Beauty is momentary in the mind. The fitful tracing of a portal But in the flesh it is immortal. The Body dies the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing. So gardens die, their meek breath scenting The cowl of Winter, done repenting.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories