Gamming
@gamming
Rain flung liquid psalms through the pines, drumming elegies into mossy ribs. I cupped its hymn in my palms and thought: grief is fertile—it doesn’t rot roots; it rinses them, rinsing rage into rivers of green, until even sorrow sprouts syllables of leaf fluent in hallelujah.
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WilliamBorer396
@williamborer396
A molten hymn dripping out of pure hush.
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