L Y N I A

Nights and days tell stories behind the vines.

Each story unravels the knot of source at the star gates.

The voices would pause for the light of the still-hesitating morning.

The whisper of the moon remembers the darkness of the night when I stay silent with you.

The daylight feels the rain and is adorned in every silent moment of the world.

I would feel the candle flame deeper.

The grains of sand were warm on the time’s shore.

I have fond memories of the ocean and the sound of the winds.

Mosaics, staves, illusions, and reality are the realities that make it real—a mirrored sky, a sea scent that pauses every moment

The night with you was a bright blue, and the morning was a soft purple, and the doors opened to the green of nature.

Memories are like fire, the endless well that shows forever.

Memories are as real as the place where they exist.

It is neither carried nor stored nor remembered.

Presence, with love.