The

Poetry

Sunbeams are gold and if you look closely, you will take notice that they are lined with silver. And even closer still are the hairs of children who play on the streets of Heaven. They whisper through the wind, through the tops of tall, sullen trees and attach themselves, to the porcelain complexions of beautiful girls.

Under shade trees, or the awnings of porches, the summer air churns into itself the warmth of the sun and the hope of tomorrow.

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