winged path
The stream of me
I was thinking ‘bout her when I felt something.
Rivers were flowing and the stream increased.
The origin of the rivers melted and was fiery.
The rivers started as a unit,
But scattered as they went.
They bloomed a lot of tulips;
It became lively from their scent.
The stream though, wasn't aimless.
It concentrated at a place.
It collected to let it be witnessed;
The redness on a face.
As a result of her admiration,
The origin, the glacier had melted.
The coldness experienced inflammation.
Then, my face got tilted.
The mirror said, “The view was you.”
It was my heart, now flame blue.
The stream was nothin’ but my blood, too.
Open to helpful criticism and admiration. Filter out the unnecessary insults yourself.
@visual dove
visual dove