Lessons: Origins of August

There are still beautiful people, though sometimes I forget. Like a silken breeze kissing cinnamon skin beneath an amethyst sky. Like a lips parched in famine devouring crystalline hand-fulls at the waters edge. It gives me rest.

There are storms that can be weathered. Patched hulls are the scars of adventure, and a man with nothing left to lose mocks the daunting clouds. Gripping the shroud, swaying after the tempest has passed, one is intrigued by the light as if another dawn would never rise.

Photo credit: Johannes Plenio