Literature
Windmills
The sky already painted ochre at the edges, Planets kiss the horizon, and the stars fade out, As my restless mind tumbles over and over Like the windmills observed by sleep-ringed eyes, Idly my thoughts invent cryptids Mysteries to be found in slow pulses of light and the morning shadows, Footsteps between canvas, Fleeting moments of serenity- Almost intangible, Spider-silk and rapidly evaporating dew drops of focus, Ever hesitant to let go- Taking a reckless gamble to hold on, The day truly begins - cold water across skin, Birdsong melancholy, Dreams rise like steam from inside a favourite chipped coffee mug- Slowly becoming just as bitter.