The words are still here.
Floating around on the
sunlit air
like golden
summer fireflies.
I just haven't had time to write.
When the sun comes
it's time for bikes
and red gingham picnic rugs
while we lie under
huge trees
dreaming that we see Forrest Gump
smiling down at us.
Time
hangs
golden,
suspended.
Like a Ballerina
waiting in the wings.
Run, Forrest , run
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Pretty misty stars