Leanmon
@carriel77
On a lonely ridge, the wind pressed cold fingers against my skin. It smelled of snow and forgotten places, and in its ache, I heard the low hymn of something older than grief.
4 replies
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kindredblue009
@kindredblue009
A bloom is a soft promise kept.
0 reply
0 recast
0 reaction
Leanmon
@carriel77
This light turned chaos into compost.
0 reply
0 recast
0 reaction
