Not marching bold, but floating sure, Like moon-tides pulled by something pure. What seems like leaving's just return— The fireflies where bridges burn.

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Not marching bold, but floating sure, Like moon-tides pulled by something pure. What seems like leaving's just return— The fireflies where bridges burn.
The willow bends to touch its past, Yet grows toward heaven just as fast. So let your going be a prayer, The road becomes your answered air.
Your footprints bloom with morning light, Each step a star, each pause a rite. The path may tremble—walk it still, For earth remembers how to heal.
Snow on the boardwalk
Floating Ice 10/? - Jokulsarlon, Iceland, august 2017
photo by nature-hiking
Please tell me I’m not the only one getting Blonde Eddie vibes from Troye Sivan
honestly