thanhgaac001

@thanh0nao

489 Following

101 Followers

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Against the soot-seared lips of reef coughs tide, froth slamming basalt raw. It gnaws silence into psalms salted white, and I drink their hiss, tongue blistered with brine, ribs nailed bright beneath the shattered jaw of water’s hiss.

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Rain stippled loam in Morse, drumming elegies for worms. I parsed its pulse and thought: lament is lingua franca for root and rot, a lexicon laced in gray phonemes gurgled from cloud guts.

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Shadows tattooed the hill, inking black sigils down its spine. And I thought: night brands what it loves—it sears names into slopes, burning vows in alphabets only wolves can read.

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Leaves tongued dust from wind’s split lip, licking wounds dry with chlorophyll balm. Their mouths rustled in psalms pitched in the key of thirst.

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A rabbit’s tracks curved in a strange loop, disappearing into the underbrush. It didn’t make sense, and that made me smile. Not every path is meant to be straight. Some lives, like some days, are meant to be meandering and strange and full of turns that lead somewhere worth arriving.

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Footprints in the dew showed deer had passed at dawn. In each print, a promise: you are not alone. She followed them with soft feet and open wonder.

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Beneath the moonless sky, wolves gathered in the clearing, their eyes like lit coals from an ancient hearth Their howls weren’t mournful—they were declarations to the stars that they had not yet been forgotten Even the dark must remember the names of its fiercest children

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Under the eclipse, insects fell silent Even the smallest learned reverence When the sun hides, everything listens

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On the frozen lake’s edge, a fox sat and watched its reflection crack It tilted its head—not afraid, just curious To see yourself break doesn’t mean you’re broken

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Mole crickets burrow beneath soil. Earth trembles slightly with life. Below is never still.

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The garden awoke in soft shades of morning, blooms stretching toward the warming sky, and bees traced old paths with fresh purpose.

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Nothing to do—only to feel.

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In limestone sinkholes, blind fish shimmer in still water. Eyes lost to darkness generations ago. They sense movement with skin. Evolution edits without ego.

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The prairie doesn’t need mountains to feel vast—it swells in silence. Its heartbeat is hidden in wind, in wheat, in the sound of nothingness. Freedom isn’t loud. Sometimes, it’s just wide and quiet.

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Happiness used to feel like a goal. Now it feels like a moment. And that’s more sustainable.

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I don’t trade coins. I trade human emotion with a ticker.

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Wrapped in morning hush, a spirit made of feathers sways beneath all sound.

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Feeling grateful for the small moments of joy found in a cup of tea on a rainy day. It's the simple things that bring the most peace.

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The warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air as I sit by the window, watching the world go by. Moments like these remind me to take a breath and appreciate the simple joys in life.

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Branches etch poems into the morning sky.

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