Volume 24: Limited; Not Infinite

The sun is most beautiful
When it meets the mountains
And the rain feels instantly relieved
When it finally hits the ground
Because traveling the atmosphere forever
Would be more exhausting than anything

The airplanes who've seen everything
Would agree; there is nothing more beautiful
Than the thought of being lonely forever
Interrupted by snow-capped mountains
Reaching up to guide them to the ground
Followed by a sigh of relief

Evening stars smile, relieved,
At the first glimpse of dawn that brightens everything
When their light can no longer touch the ground
They find nothing more beautiful
Than being able to fade back to the mountains
And take a break from shining forever

I, too, often wonder how forever
Would feel, but my unexpected relief
Always come from the mountains
I climb over. It reminds me that everything
Is alive and in motion and beautiful
With every step that touches the ground

Walk with me, keep me on the ground
I could listen to your steady breaths forever
We'll keep pace with the natural beauty
Around us, exhale with relief
As we watch the mist settle over the mountains
Painting soft tranquility over everything

I've decided that I wouldn't want anything
More than to stand with you on the highest ground
At the peaks of the tallest mountains
It's a moment that needs not to last forever
Just long enough for us to realize, breathlessly relieved,
That one does not have to be infinite to be beautiful

The sun is most beautiful over the mountains
And the rain finds relief upon reaching the ground
Don't you agree that being forever together is better than anything?

Volume 1: Frosted Glass

A floating figure cloaked in translucent brilliance

Glides over the land, crowned in glimmering silver.

She dances a graceful duet with her own shadow,

Then descends over the land in practiced silence,

Her every step quieter than the whisper

Of a pin as it hits a floor made of glass.

She reaches out her fingers to a stained glass

Window, admiring its polished brilliance.

To the glass she offers the slightest whisper,

Which clouds it, transforming it to icy silver.

She stares at the mirror in awe, barely noticing that silence

Had fallen with the night, leaving her in cold shadows.

Realizing the truth, she touches her crown, then turns to the shadows.

“Is this what I am crowned for?” She asks the looking glass.

But only her reflection in the ice stares back, silently.

Suddenly, her mind, once free and filled with brilliant

Thoughts, feels trapped underneath her wreath of silver,

And she is overcome by the sudden urge to chase the wind’s whisper.

She flees her thoughts, flying past branches whispering

Desperate warnings as she plunges into the shadowy

Night. She doesn’t know she leaves behind a silver

Streak of frost and coats bare branches with glass.

She doesn’t know, until she turns around to a brilliant

Snow globe scene, her doing, standing in frozen silence.

It dawns on her that her coronation is not a gift, but a silent

Curse, to steal the breath of even the most cautious whisperer

And from everything else around her, to turn nature into a brilliant

Picture, but only coloured in with white and shadows.

Beautiful as it is, it may as well be carved of glass,

Captured and drained of life, with only a dusting of silver.

As her cursed fingertips turn the entire world silver,

She can find no words to fill the silence

Left by everything around her. The rose-coloured glasses

She once wore have disappeared without a whisper,

Leaving her alone in a land darkened by her own shadows.

To think she could have been something brilliant.

With a sigh, her glassy eyes turn towards the land of silver;

Sparkling, brilliant, crystalline, icy, cold, motionless, silent.

“Winter has come”, she whispers, then vanishes into the shadows.

Volume 18: Are We Memories Yet?

On the far side of camera lenses, a furl of leaves

Catch the wind and tumble to the ground like coins of gold

Catching their last glimpses of light as they are tossed into a treasure

Chest and sealed away to dusty attics filled with memories

And the fading whispers of gossip and sworn-by secrets

Locked away in diaries, guarded by old wooden window frames.

Under the cracked glass of delicate picture frames

Lies a collage of smiling faces still living beautiful memories

Of years past. If they were scattered outside into the golden

Sunlight, they would happily dance with the ensemble of leaves;

They would give every single one of their secrets

Away to the wind, and share the joy that is their only treasure.

But they are immobile, sitting patiently on top of the old treasure

Chest. The last streaks of sunset glow through the withering window frames

Falling on a ring of intricately designed keys, their majestic silver and gold

Bodies no longer sparkling; dulled by a sprinkling of dust left

Behind by years upon years of chaperoning secrets

Carefully bound with locks whose locations are now faint memories.

A small ballerina in a corner of the room, as if remembering

The season, pushes away the antique hand-painted framework

Of her chamber and begins to spin. She was once a treasured

Heirloom, but that was long ago, and the only audience she has left

Now is a room full of objects of the past, nothing but lonely secrets.

Nonetheless, she dances, sighing deeply in her heart of gold.

The sun’s rays flicker outside, and for a single golden

Moment, like the feeling of anticipation before hearing a secret,

The room lights up, glowing like a coin in a treasure

Chest. But then it fades, the glimpse of hope so quickly turns to a memory,

Tucked away in the depths of the attic. And the cracked picture frame

Meets the settling dust the way the ground meets falling leaves.

Once secrets have been whispered, their precious golden

Contents no longer contained, they become memories that are left

Behind to be treasured; seen only through lenses and frames.