The bells toll proudly, thru the way in which a street is hazed, flagged with fables, salted from grace. I travel, celebrating the minutes of light, and as I widen my revelations to dress the horizons, as I drive, I spark a bevy of memories, of faults, of cheers, of yesterday, and towards the secrets and whispers that float a star trail apart in the times that lazed here, now grazing there with no matter in between. The sea whistles a poem to be unraveled by someone of a caliber well known to me, as I had reached the waterfront, and the stares mawkishly mock the wind rippling auroele in the spots of the sea below a golden djjay shade, the electricity of stillness disturbed by the play of weather. I had stopped to witness, but now I carry on again, I continue my attempts to attain an attestment that states years out of my aviary, after the climate that dangles unfazed and perfumed by a spectral mist, that I drearily found as I was missing a path to escape, as I was searching for a spine to wear and travel further. The ecstasy of adventures drips thru my hands, amid my trials to reject or admit my admiration to the confessions of my greater half, my better mind, my sweeter heart that awaits all the way to the top, or discovering it all the way back home, which I have left to run. I drive even now, a little slower, slower.

Reblogged this on Alessandria today @ Pier Carlo Lava.
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A drive well worth taking, Watt.
Spines should be steel belted, and with a choice of tread. All terrain would be best.
As hearts seem to come in a wide variety
of shades and textures.
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I bet you have taken a drive of this kind. In Mexico maybe?
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I’m preparing to fly the coop, in a coupe,
over the cuckoo nest, and far away . . .
and bust out of the big city aviary.
Next month I’m driving the 3,741 kilometres
from Melbourne, north to Darwin, going thru
the red centre of Australia.
I drove the Route 500 through to the north
of Scotland, in the summertime with my
bonnie lassie. Stopping only to sample the
local whiskey. It was O.K. because they
only let you drive 40 miles per hour π
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Limits. Huh?
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The key, in Britain, is to drive a car that can only go 60 miles per hour. No problemo π
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I took the slow but scenic route provided by this poem. A route signposted by birds with messages and memories. A poem whistled by the sea..
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It was you I imagined writing the whistling of the scenes into a belt of endless possibilities. π
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Oh…. π so, me whistling or me unraveling?
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And, I did feel like this poem spoke to me somehow…
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You unraveling in a montage of revelry. π
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It sounds quite luxurious really.
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I’m glad you think so. π
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Hi.
your Address is sapphire-sky-com.home.blog
okοΌοΌ
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Yes, it is. Also, a lot of your comments are in my spam folder instead of regular comments. I don’t know why. Don’t worry though I will approve you at every turn. π
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Yes! Thank you m (_ _) m
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This reminds me of my drives with my girl in the evenings. We like to drive down to the lake by the house and she always says mom take the long way. She said the other evening that this was her favorite time of the day, and they are mine as well. I do drive slower home. Because illustration Watt. Love the feeling in this piece.
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Beautiful illustration not because…my auto correct drives me crazy. π
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So does mine! And so often!!
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Reblogged this on From 1 Blogger 2 Another.
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