Muse |
Muse |
The clouds, fairy-fluffs, melted, and whipped rose-quartz, blushing cherub-cheeks, are the promised lands of dreams, some so high they become impossible to attain, Yet, are still willing to be aspired to. The clouds, eraser-marks, scrubbing mistakes out of our predecessors, arched eyebrows, an angry omen of a bad day, are no longer, but the turbulence of a disturbance kind, being the tears of challenge and uncertainty. The clouds, damp-cloth, mask to the outside, its visor a dull and fading reach, consumed by the earth, authority are as mighty as ever, yet are in the decline, placed high as the clouds, but clouds have not substance, and the rain relief will fall through, landing as a lie sold to the nation. Originally written in 2012, age 16
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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