Romanticism-Aurora Borealis

Nature’s dusty sugar settled upon the hardened mineral we simplify as a rock. The auras cast from above were heaven’s gift. God rest his colorful lights upon my wretched soul. The absence of heat allowed my body to connect with the ice bestowed upon my pale skin. Flakes fell on my head like french revolutionaries for the king’s head on a silver plate.

The roman cavalry of wind gushed upon my train of thought. The wave of light gave character to the frail weather most would call dreadful. We have lost our touch with nature over time. In modern views, this heavenly scene would be determined to be hell’s fury as it froze over the “people’s” floor. I could hear my own blood pumping like the Tell-Tale’s heartbeat. I was not really hearing it in my own mind, but rather feeling the sensation that comes from my bare skin upon the glittering talc. Its insidious war tactic was too beautiful to not surrender. I gave myself over to nature’s light and invested my soul into its gift. The pine bark died within the innocence of battle.

Nature was its own enemy, yet it provided aftercare. The locus was a civil war, and the shadowing lights were slaves of complexion. Why could we not see the beauty of the fury? This was a masquerade to the science behind it. Man feels the need to put a label or explanation on everything when they could just appreciate the gift of the holy spirit. Even if the earth exploded into what it is, there is no possible way to tell how this began.

The green gas was the night’s makeup. It covered the bruises created by the people. God is not allowed to be in what has become of our society. Instead of thanking him, we prove his inexistence. The once white skin on this very hand becomes red and numb to the hatred laid upon the dust I lay in. The arches within the land provide a bed for my head. A plateau sits below nature’s chair-piling inches of soporific sand. Antarctic vibes create a chilling experience. Just the thought of my nails dug into the cold sends goosebumps through my frostbitten spine. There is a depth to the sky that is neverending.

 Do we judge what we cannot see? The answer is self-explanatory. I will acclimate myself to the climate as it had to acclimate to mine. There are not enough syllables nor synonyms to describe the rimy, prominent summit that shelters me-nor the luminescent endowment of God.