maelynslavik

Everyone has their own religion, 

Something they can look upon.

It could be a motto,

A quote or a book.

There are widely known religions,

With belief filled books.

But even then,

Little orange mushrooms sprout,

The ruffle running along a crack

In the dark wooded log.

The rain is constant,

Drizzling across the lake,

Fogging the air,

Settling gloom into everything.

A streak of gray rushes to the sky,

Soaring and arching,

Up, up, up.

A thin line of smoke is left behind,

A trail of the firework's journey.

It begins to ark,

The parabola beginning to be graphed,

My fingers pull back,
The arrow drawn with it,
The tip aimed down at the target.
My breathing steadies,
My thoughts slow,
Nothing else mattering.
The thin, pointed cone aims,
Steading towares the ring,

Little berries lie in front of me,

The seeds still clinging to the vine,

The red still darkening to black.

They greedily soak up the sun,

Their cloroplasts begging for the light,

Their leaves fanning open.

My eyes study my drawing,
Laying simply on the white paper in front of me,
Pouring over the intersecting lines,
Connecting corners,
And overlapping connections.
Each line is only a representative,