Literature
Decayed Beauty
Crisp, Warm breeze catches my hair. The trees whisper to me, yet I cannot understand what they say. It is as if its in an ancient language long forgotten, now only known to the books of mythical fairies and elves. The wind low to the ground picks up and blows leaves too and froe. Their shadows dance across my face. A crack in the leaf roof tops makes a stream of sunlight hit my face, the light glares into my eyes I am forced to look away. The stream, rushing like a busy body, catches my eye. I walk along the creek, stopping ever so often to look at the beautiful lush plant-life that is swarmed around me. Whats this? I