PROSE- Addicted to Nature.

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Wind hustled through my hair whispering soft melody of lost love. I watched the leaves plummeting in the zephyr, piling up leaves of red, green, brown and black to the wooden fence of my garden. I leisurely stirred back and forth gazing into tranquility.

The orange glow scattered radiance of ocher crystals making my heart swing through moments of yesterday and today, constructing thoughts of bafflement. I watched the boughs of my sturdy oak tree gleaming to the rays of energy.  I wonder whether trees of yesterday connected by roots of today have contemplations of young love when they were just sprouts of optimism.

As my heart swing through hues of perplexity, I whispered a soft melody of bleakness. Golden chariot of thoughts took me from reality to fantasy, where my heart yearned for enchantment.

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Silently nagging through flashes of dusk hues, I brood over the swift zephyr, where they take the desiccated comatose leaves. I dance with the song of sheer pleasure as they take me back to the memories of long lost love. I pushed back the leaves from declining and thumping the fresh soil, as I fear they might get allergy. I failed to remember that they grew old sucking the same soil I fear of getting them perished.  I inhale deeply the air of fresh dew and mist that I often forget is my source of living.

Frantically, I dreamt about a place with headless trees hugging fresh grass and crushing them back to the same soil they break open to pull their body up. I woke with trembling fingers to perceive soft breeze howling through the boughs of the brawny oak and transporting the chill of night whispers through the white satin that veil windows.

One afternoon, when medicating with the hushed nature I initiated how handsome the sun sparkled in the yielding varnish of yellow melting ice cream, not too harsh to suck the ice and get skin wrinkled. I contemplated why the condemnation fell over the pale body of ocher glow, who themselves found overwhelmed by the unvarying smoldering all the time.

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Watching the flapping wings of birds that humbly dominated the heavens as their own sing a song less known to men but better know to nature, smearing legacies to the skies with stars of wisdom and wind of epilogues.

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