breathe carolina

Nothing is sacred in this realm; not even this word ‘sacrilegious’

Though I hold it in high esteem

Turning it over like a blank page

Marking time and scarring the surface

With my digital impressionist paintings

in my minds’ eye

The third one between the Emerald Isle and the olive groves

Branching out towards something more grounded

Is a version of utopia that’ll never meet

The pink skies of an early dawn

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