Picture book pages flip in the wind,
Like flimsy fabric ripping against the trees.
These memories fall victim,
Pictures of life we may never see again.
They fly from our fingers much too fast.
If I’m unable to grasp
The color of your eyes
Or gentle waves in your hair …
If your fingers slip from mine
Before I can feel them slide
Along my sides …
If these memories begin to evade,
Should they slide away like cotton in the breeze …
Let me tell you before they’re gone,
Just one more time.
As in, I did not expect this to work. I used a first line generator, first line was “Before the day of harmony the trees echo,”
Before the day of harmony the trees echo,
Below the mountainous bellow.
Begging to take cover,
Wild things trample over
Giving rise to roaring sound.
Hiding beneath cloudless skies,
Smoke snakes along paths of lies.
Desperate for salvation
We search for causation.
Missing truth among the darkness;
Unfeeling in our catharsis.
Before the day of harmony can return,
The world must first burn.
Please go take a look at The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! We have some lovely and deep stories this week about writing through pain (or in my case around it).