A swift, sweet world.
Years ways from unheard noise.
Happiness flies with ease through the towns.
Together, towns find herds of peace.
The day dies and the night lives
I can breathe in rage, the form of innocence, quiet from sound.
Town the shade of winter, and the stones from summer.
My mind is mixed with native fields with flocks of fire.
I am happy, free, unknown, I do not exist. I only tell the sweet story of my hours, I am only but world I call the shadow of your day; to see the moon yet to rise I try yo swim in a tear that was looking for a face to cry on. Isn't it funny to hear the screams of torn paper?
You can smell a flower but never know it's scent because all who wander are not lost.
If I knew the mind of the wind I would be flying searching for it too. I don't want to be that empty space a writer can't express.
This is the rage of the innocence, and when you feel it you can hear the heartbeat of the Earth.
-By Jennifer Izagurie, One of my 8th grade best Blue Bullet friends-