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Whispers of the Sky
Clouds as slow handwriting.
Clouds do not whisper secrets to me. They draft and erase — cotton, thunderhead, silver dissolving when the sun insists on a rewrite.
I watch from the yard, thirteen and stationary, while the sky commutes.
Serenity is not permanence. It is shape-change you cannot stop, only witness.
Youth is declined as moral. Attention is the point.
The next billow covers what the last one said.
JV · Dark Heart Labs