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There is a woman at the top of the stairs.
Her brunette hair up in a bun, tiny tendrils caress her slender neck. Her smile is a beaming light, her almond brown eyes have found yours.
I climb the stairs, others evaporate away into nothing. All attention fixed on her.
I cross paths with a glorious light.
Hurry up and slow down, don’t act a fool, don’t trip on the stairs, hold on to the railing, get a grip.
It’s too late.
All I could manage was a sheepish, “Hello.”
She smiled ever so brightly, and said, “Hi.”
Her smell a flower garden of repast, her hair a raven’s nest of alluvial wisps.
The moon raising her up to the highest.
The Selenite orb enshrines the glowing city in a whimsical beauty. I walk into the future.
The angels are alive and well.
There Is A Woman At The Top Of The Stairs.
I hear ya. Overly patriotic dweebs think their country is worth it.
Lemme tell ya. Your country won’t pay you to kill or systematically deny asylum to another human unless you are getting paid by the, “Insular Military Clique”