Supreme Sanctuary

Eternal childhood with delicate demands—inside the light of a blossom the day never ends . . .

A journey seems too physical across the crossroad of bridges with no reflections.

Arriving at a dusty palette my hand touches a single-dimensional bench by a gazebo.

There’s a supreme sanctuary—so rare that a falling luminosity is fluid and can be captured.

All of its changes are layers of immaculacy gardening life where each fragrant flower I put into my hair is a butterfly.

Only the Light could show me where I am by throwing ropes of colored aroma to the impatient foliage.

For some reason, I cannot wait to be mixed up into the chased pigments of all experiences.

For some reason, I cannot wait for the journey which is the only way to reach the Light.

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