It was the impeccable imperfection of her tousled hair, of…
I lay still. And poetry weaves itself around me.
Myriad shapes. Cacophonous dreams. Resonating silences. A web they form. I am soon engulfed by a warp. My numb fingers touch the luminescent strands of imagination and rays benign begin to penetrate through me.
I was on this side and eternity on another.
Entwined in dyed threads, dappling in reality and prodding realization, lines colored begin to ink my mind.
I lay still. And poetry had weaved itself around me.
Crop Top – Thrifted
Denims – Marks & Spencer
Bag – StalkBuyLove
Heels – Last Worn Here
Flat Cap – Vintage
Photography – Anish Nair
Till the next post,
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