Seasons changed/ Memories erased/ Photographs lost/ Innocence stolen/ There is nothing to promise/ Love with anymore/ She didn't know what to do/ So she raised her delicate hands/ Towards the dark sky/ And everything fell to her feet/ The stars, planets and galaxies/ She gathered them/ And took them away/ To sleep at night and prayed/ For the pain to go away/ Happiness to return/ Hoping tomorrow to be/ Better than today.
I am imagining this world but I’m inviting you in So I can join you. In the old language, the language No one ever spoke, the language whose words In the scholarly papers are marked by stars, Asterisks that say this word exists by not existing.
“Her secret was listening to flowers. Because all flowers speak and sing, even those we draw, and it is impossible to remain unsociable when we draw a flower or a bird.”—Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space
“In some mysterious way woods have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them; yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.”—John Fowles (via floralnymph)
“If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you.”—Henry Rollins (via floralnymph)