Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Beauty was known once – intimately – and days didn’t require Nature’s arrogance to awaken the tired mind. Besieged by the thick responsibilities of each breath, each tick of the clock and move of shadow across accumulated comfort claimed a triumph of vision, soft skin and tussled hair, the creased brow and soft exhale. The moan and surrender. The kindness and sweet Heaven of indulgence, dulling the rage of later hours when days’ brilliance ebbed, a low tide of worth and a lunar pull of a hating mirror’s gaze. In those quiet curves and hastened pulses, truth climbed the rigid, sharp bones of honor and fell upon the base of a skull borne frightened by the unkindness of reality. It was where beauty lived, curled in comfort between bodies lain prone to nothing but sweat scented air and the adoration built by a history of sacrifice. The sun can’t claim providence. Nor can the sea, the sky or the land. For it’s in the full heart where the rarest flower blossoms, soil never worshiped as the savior it always is. (at Incomparable)

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