Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash
It blows strong and weak
It fills my Lungs, the Prana
Without, I Am not
About the Creator
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More stories from Pablo Caicedo and writers in Poets and other communities.
The First Rainbow Baby
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The rain fell in rhythmic splatters, slowly slowing, but still constant. Mira rolled onto her side pulling the blanket tight against her ears, but still she could hear chitter-chatter and scurrying feet of the creatures that refused to sleep in the lower decks.
By A. J. Schoenfeld6 days ago in Fiction
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