“We are ever blossoming.”

Honesty, love never stopped looking for you.

Are we or are we not meant to crave possibilities?

Nothing permanent grows from comfort.

Choose to make every pulse worth it.

The wound is real but so is the healing.

Would it be safe to say that I find you in every heartbeat?

In a way, hope is a type of courage too.

Love resides within each breath.

Speak good things into existence.

Using each heartbeat as a second chance.

But these downpours, they can all be a type of cleaning.

What is my ribcage if not a prison for hope.

And I held onto hope. Like a dear old friend.

But I know courage. It is never lost.

Even the rain could be the answer to your prayers.

You and that love you carry. Like fresh rivers. Like new poetry.

Leaves dance on twisted arms, swaying on the breeze as though choreographed by unseen hands. Even the faithless could find themselves converts, by the smell of dampened earth and its blossoming rose.

Emptiness is bound to bloom, like hundreds of grasses blossoming.

For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language.

A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

This is what makes us human. But it comes with a costly price: the wound of mortality. Our existence is forever shadowed by the knowledge that we will grow, blossom, and, inevitably, diminish and die.

Youth is a blossom whose fruit is love; happy is he who plucks it after watching it slowly ripen.

Letting a hundred flowers blossom and a hundred schools of thought contend is the policy for promoting the progress of the arts and the sciences and a flourishing culture in our land.

It is to make it nurture and grow that I write my script- it is directing it that makes my tree blossom and bear fruit.