Piece of Prince (P.O.P)
“The strawberries were good there. I brought you some.”
Origami planes, crushed petals locked in resin, an interesting piece of bark— the Little Prince brings something for Hope wherever he goes.
On Mondays and Thursdays, he goes to deliver pressed tea bricks to the Moon Rabbit and catches a few stars from the night sky (they were fireflies in nets, but you could never tell!) to bring back to his friend.
Together, they run the flower-shop for other days of the week— matching sprouts on their heads and smiles on bread-cheeks, safe-keeping unfurled roses from those who have been pricked by a single thorn and decided to trample on all the roses to the end of the earth.
The Little Prince has been there once. But he saved the treacherous rose that drew a bead of blood from the tip of his thumb— saved it in a jar with water and love and now he has a garden that puts the Selfish Giant to shame.
They light a fire for those buying cheap sleep off pavements with moth-eaten blankets for cover, crumbling like autumn leaves beneath careless feet. They go over to every birdless tree to whisper to their abandoned branches.
They sing out loud, but the world seems to be short of hearing. They try again, nevertheless.
On Sundays, they decide on doing people-y things. They go to lakes, spinning rods dangling off their ambitious shoulders. They laugh over failed fishing attempts.
The Prince is unfairly good on skates and snowboards. Hope dances like words from a poem chasing a piano to build its own song. They move their best in different ways.
When Spring Day comes, the Prince sees Hope off in the garden where he puts on his sunflower petals and waits for the Dancing Bee. There he meets a plucked flower who keeps rolling on the ground, while others still bloom.
It rolls and turns, folds the dust and dirt onto itself.
Hope seals his hands around his mouth in a tight cone and calls out to the wind. It rushes in to give the fallen flower a piggyback while it tells stories of all the times it has brought colors and smells and lured the sunlight into the garden for all its friends.
It speaks of the times when the cloud has been stubborn, and the sky has been dry. Parched and praying, it has cried for rain. It also sings of the times when the rain finally came, beading on its petals like little transparent boba balls.
It tells the wind how the last smile it has brought was to the childish face of the little boy who has come roaming in, the one who has also plucked it at the end of the day’s play. But in his forgetfulness, left it lying on the muddy bed.
The wind promises to bring it to a new place for it to bloom again. To bloom with colors and smells and smiles.
The Dancing Bee is ecstatic about meeting Hope. They soon become two bees in a pod.
They keep the flowers company while they work, smiling and singing, gathering nectar in their carefully stitched pockets.
A circle or a figure of eight. To waggle or not is indeed a matter of fate!
Sometimes they fly far, wings in a tired hum, rushed scout or careful hover, picking and choosing the sugar and smiles. They melt it in their toasty palms for their friends. Spoonsful of candied love.
Another day of success at their happiness delivery service.
Hope and Bee— one who comes in the shape of hearts and one with crescent moons for eyes. They slowly dance, tripping feet and aching pinions, eyes straining from tedious flight while those around them move in frenzied buzz like the sun itself has come into their room with warmth and light. Filled and content with the honey they have been brought.
For as long as they dance in tandem, they bring summer and spring. Two bees on a pod, only sweet, sweet honey, no sting.
One day, the Bee flies his dancing companion to the sea. He speaks of a friend Hope must lend a piece of his heart and tend to. Hope folds himself into a paper-ship and drifts near the anchorage.
A man of many foibles, and bicycle wheels for legs. The city sits heavy on his chest, like a rock. He has fastened it and carried it to the port, dragged his journal to the ocean’s edge, skimming the waters for words for his songs. The sea salt sits on his tongue. He scribbles between calculated breaths.
Ships twinkle like tealights in a row on the horizon. One with ‘Hope’ written on the starboard bow comes to greet him at the rundown port.
And the man with branches for arms — a gentle Groot, rests his head against a binnacle on the monkey island. His new friend rocks him on the ruffled wave-blanket to put him to sleep.
The bracelet they made from mooring ropes around his wrist reminds him in the morning that they will always share an anchor.
After all-summer-long adventures, Hope comes home to his Prince. To the pink of freshly plucked strawberry and his pouty plump lips and the petrichor from dewy grass sticking out from between the leathery mud where he lays, catching sunlight through floating dandelions.
The Prince looks at him like Hope has somehow caught a rainbow on the prism and placed it on his outstretched hand.
Hope’s inner child goes riding on carousels. Carnivals and careless candor. He feels a little (a lot) in love.
I took a scrap of paper and a pen out of my pocket.
Hope wants to write a poem. But no arrangement of words in fractals can tell of how the sun catches the Prince’s eyes while his breath catches in his throat.
But the Prince reads it off Hope’s mental scribbling. And holds him like the ocean softly holds the sky offshore.
Piece of Prince (P.O.P)
“The strawberries were good there. I brought you some.”
Origami planes, crushed petals locked in resin, an interesting piece of bark— the Little Prince brings something for Hope wherever he goes.
On Mondays and Thursdays, he goes to deliver pressed tea bricks to the Moon Rabbit and catches a few stars from the night sky (they were fireflies in nets, but you could never tell!) to bring back to his friend.
Together, they run the flower-shop for other days of the week— matching sprouts on their heads and smiles on bread-cheeks, safe-keeping unfurled roses from those who have been pricked by a single thorn and decided to trample on all the roses to the end of the earth.
The Little Prince has been there once. But he saved the treacherous rose that drew a bead of blood from the tip of his thumb— saved it in a jar with water and love and now he has a garden that puts the Selfish Giant to shame.
They light a fire for those buying cheap sleep off pavements with moth-eaten blankets for cover, crumbling like autumn leaves beneath careless feet. They go over to every birdless tree to whisper to their abandoned branches.
They sing out loud, but the world seems to be short of hearing. They try again, nevertheless.
On Sundays, they decide on doing people-y things. They go to lakes, spinning rods dangling off their ambitious shoulders. They laugh over failed fishing attempts.
The Prince is unfairly good on skates and snowboards. Hope dances like words from a poem chasing a piano to build its own song. They move their best in different ways.
When Spring Day comes, the Prince sees Hope off in the garden where he puts on his sunflower petals and waits for the Dancing Bee. There he meets a plucked flower who keeps rolling on the ground, while others still bloom.
It rolls and turns, folds the dust and dirt onto itself.
Hope seals his hands around his mouth in a tight cone and calls out to the wind. It rushes in to give the fallen flower a piggyback while it tells stories of all the times it has brought colors and smells and lured the sunlight into the garden for all its friends.
It speaks of the times when the cloud has been stubborn, and the sky has been dry. Parched and praying, it has cried for rain. It also sings of the times when the rain finally came, beading on its petals like little transparent boba balls.
It tells the wind how the last smile it has brought was to the childish face of the little boy who has come roaming in, the one who has also plucked it at the end of the day’s play. But in his forgetfulness, left it lying on the muddy bed.
The wind promises to bring it to a new place for it to bloom again. To bloom with colors and smells and smiles.
The Dancing Bee is ecstatic about meeting Hope. They soon become two bees in a pod.
They keep the flowers company while they work, smiling and singing, gathering nectar in their carefully stitched pockets.
A circle or a figure of eight. To waggle or not is indeed a matter of fate!
Sometimes they fly far, wings in a tired hum, rushed scout or careful hover, picking and choosing the sugar and smiles. They melt it in their toasty palms for their friends. Spoonsful of candied love.
Another day of success at their happiness delivery service.
Hope and Bee— one who comes in the shape of hearts and one with crescent moons for eyes. They slowly dance, tripping feet and aching pinions, eyes straining from tedious flight while those around them move in frenzied buzz like the sun itself has come into their room with warmth and light. Filled and content with the honey they have been brought.
For as long as they dance in tandem, they bring summer and spring. Two bees on a pod, only sweet, sweet honey, no sting.
One day, the Bee flies his dancing companion to the sea. He speaks of a friend Hope must lend a piece of his heart and tend to. Hope folds himself into a paper-ship and drifts near the anchorage.
A man of many foibles, and bicycle wheels for legs. The city sits heavy on his chest, like a rock. He has fastened it and carried it to the port, dragged his journal to the ocean’s edge, skimming the waters for words for his songs. The sea salt sits on his tongue. He scribbles between calculated breaths.
Ships twinkle like tealights in a row on the horizon. One with ‘Hope’ written on the starboard bow comes to greet him at the rundown port.
And the man with branches for arms — a gentle Groot, rests his head against a binnacle on the monkey island. His new friend rocks him on the ruffled wave-blanket to put him to sleep.
The bracelet they made from mooring ropes around his wrist reminds him in the morning that they will always share an anchor.
After all-summer-long adventures, Hope comes home to his Prince. To the pink of freshly plucked strawberry and his pouty plump lips and the petrichor from dewy grass sticking out from between the leathery mud where he lays, catching sunlight through floating dandelions.
The Prince looks at him like Hope has somehow caught a rainbow on the prism and placed it on his outstretched hand.
Hope’s inner child goes riding on carousels. Carnivals and careless candor. He feels a little (a lot) in love.
I took a scrap of paper and a pen out of my pocket.
Hope wants to write a poem. But no arrangement of words in fractals can tell of how the sun catches the Prince’s eyes while his breath catches in his throat.
But the Prince reads it off Hope’s mental scribbling. And holds him like the ocean softly holds the sky offshore.
Piece of Prince (P.O.P)
“The strawberries were good there. I brought you some.”
Origami planes, crushed petals locked in resin, an interesting piece of bark— the Little Prince brings something for Hope wherever he goes.
On Mondays and Thursdays, he goes to deliver pressed tea bricks to the Moon Rabbit and catches a few stars from the night sky (they were fireflies in nets, but you could never tell!) to bring back to his friend.
Together, they run the flower-shop for other days of the week— matching sprouts on their heads and smiles on bread-cheeks, safe-keeping unfurled roses from those who have been pricked by a single thorn and decided to trample on all the roses to the end of the earth.
The Little Prince has been there once. But he saved the treacherous rose that drew a bead of blood from the tip of his thumb— saved it in a jar with water and love and now he has a garden that puts the Selfish Giant to shame.
They light a fire for those buying cheap sleep off pavements with moth-eaten blankets for cover, crumbling like autumn leaves beneath careless feet. They go over to every birdless tree to whisper to their abandoned branches.
They sing out loud, but the world seems to be short of hearing. They try again, nevertheless.
On Sundays, they decide on doing people-y things. They go to lakes, spinning rods dangling off their ambitious shoulders. They laugh over failed fishing attempts.
The Prince is unfairly good on skates and snowboards. Hope dances like words from a poem chasing a piano to build its own song. They move their best in different ways.
When Spring Day comes, the Prince sees Hope off in the garden where he puts on his sunflower petals and waits for the Dancing Bee. There he meets a plucked flower who keeps rolling on the ground, while others still bloom.
It rolls and turns, folds the dust and dirt onto itself.
Hope seals his hands around his mouth in a tight cone and calls out to the wind. It rushes in to give the fallen flower a piggyback while it tells stories of all the times it has brought colors and smells and lured the sunlight into the garden for all its friends.
It speaks of the times when the cloud has been stubborn, and the sky has been dry. Parched and praying, it has cried for rain. It also sings of the times when the rain finally came, beading on its petals like little transparent boba balls.
It tells the wind how the last smile it has brought was to the childish face of the little boy who has come roaming in, the one who has also plucked it at the end of the day’s play. But in his forgetfulness, left it lying on the muddy bed.
The wind promises to bring it to a new place for it to bloom again. To bloom with colors and smells and smiles.
The Dancing Bee is ecstatic about meeting Hope. They soon become two bees in a pod.
They keep the flowers company while they work, smiling and singing, gathering nectar in their carefully stitched pockets.
A circle or a figure of eight. To waggle or not is indeed a matter of fate!
Sometimes they fly far, wings in a tired hum, rushed scout or careful hover, picking and choosing the sugar and smiles. They melt it in their toasty palms for their friends. Spoonsful of candied love.
Another day of success at their happiness delivery service.
Hope and Bee— one who comes in the shape of hearts and one with crescent moons for eyes. They slowly dance, tripping feet and aching pinions, eyes straining from tedious flight while those around them move in frenzied buzz like the sun itself has come into their room with warmth and light. Filled and content with the honey they have been brought.
For as long as they dance in tandem, they bring summer and spring. Two bees on a pod, only sweet, sweet honey, no sting.
One day, the Bee flies his dancing companion to the sea. He speaks of a friend Hope must lend a piece of his heart and tend to. Hope folds himself into a paper-ship and drifts near the anchorage.
A man of many foibles, and bicycle wheels for legs. The city sits heavy on his chest, like a rock. He has fastened it and carried it to the port, dragged his journal to the ocean’s edge, skimming the waters for words for his songs. The sea salt sits on his tongue. He scribbles between calculated breaths.
Ships twinkle like tealights in a row on the horizon. One with ‘Hope’ written on the starboard bow comes to greet him at the rundown port.
And the man with branches for arms — a gentle Groot, rests his head against a binnacle on the monkey island. His new friend rocks him on the ruffled wave-blanket to put him to sleep.
The bracelet they made from mooring ropes around his wrist reminds him in the morning that they will always share an anchor.
After all-summer-long adventures, Hope comes home to his Prince. To the pink of freshly plucked strawberry and his pouty plump lips and the petrichor from dewy grass sticking out from between the leathery mud where he lays, catching sunlight through floating dandelions.
The Prince looks at him like Hope has somehow caught a rainbow on the prism and placed it on his outstretched hand.
Hope’s inner child goes riding on carousels. Carnivals and careless candor. He feels a little (a lot) in love.
I took a scrap of paper and a pen out of my pocket.
Hope wants to write a poem. But no arrangement of words in fractals can tell of how the sun catches the Prince’s eyes while his breath catches in his throat.
But the Prince reads it off Hope’s mental scribbling. And holds him like the ocean softly holds the sky offshore.
Piece of Prince (P.O.P)
“The strawberries were good there. I brought you some.”
Origami planes, crushed petals locked in resin, an interesting piece of bark— the Little Prince brings something for Hope wherever he goes.
On Mondays and Thursdays, he goes to deliver pressed tea bricks to the Moon Rabbit and catches a few stars from the night sky (they were fireflies in nets, but you could never tell!) to bring back to his friend.
Together, they run the flower-shop for other days of the week— matching sprouts on their heads and smiles on bread-cheeks, safe-keeping unfurled roses from those who have been pricked by a single thorn and decided to trample on all the roses to the end of the earth.
The Little Prince has been there once. But he saved the treacherous rose that drew a bead of blood from the tip of his thumb— saved it in a jar with water and love and now he has a garden that puts the Selfish Giant to shame.
They light a fire for those buying cheap sleep off pavements with moth-eaten blankets for cover, crumbling like autumn leaves beneath careless feet. They go over to every birdless tree to whisper to their abandoned branches.
They sing out loud, but the world seems to be short of hearing. They try again, nevertheless.
On Sundays, they decide on doing people-y things. They go to lakes, spinning rods dangling off their ambitious shoulders. They laugh over failed fishing attempts.
The Prince is unfairly good on skates and snowboards. Hope dances like words from a poem chasing a piano to build its own song. They move their best in different ways.
When Spring Day comes, the Prince sees Hope off in the garden where he puts on his sunflower petals and waits for the Dancing Bee. There he meets a plucked flower who keeps rolling on the ground, while others still bloom.
It rolls and turns, folds the dust and dirt onto itself.
Hope seals his hands around his mouth in a tight cone and calls out to the wind. It rushes in to give the fallen flower a piggyback while it tells stories of all the times it has brought colors and smells and lured the sunlight into the garden for all its friends.
It speaks of the times when the cloud has been stubborn, and the sky has been dry. Parched and praying, it has cried for rain. It also sings of the times when the rain finally came, beading on its petals like little transparent boba balls.
It tells the wind how the last smile it has brought was to the childish face of the little boy who has come roaming in, the one who has also plucked it at the end of the day’s play. But in his forgetfulness, left it lying on the muddy bed.
The wind promises to bring it to a new place for it to bloom again. To bloom with colors and smells and smiles.
The Dancing Bee is ecstatic about meeting Hope. They soon become two bees in a pod.
They keep the flowers company while they work, smiling and singing, gathering nectar in their carefully stitched pockets.
A circle or a figure of eight. To waggle or not is indeed a matter of fate!
Sometimes they fly far, wings in a tired hum, rushed scout or careful hover, picking and choosing the sugar and smiles. They melt it in their toasty palms for their friends. Spoonsful of candied love.
Another day of success at their happiness delivery service.
Hope and Bee— one who comes in the shape of hearts and one with crescent moons for eyes. They slowly dance, tripping feet and aching pinions, eyes straining from tedious flight while those around them move in frenzied buzz like the sun itself has come into their room with warmth and light. Filled and content with the honey they have been brought.
For as long as they dance in tandem, they bring summer and spring. Two bees on a pod, only sweet, sweet honey, no sting.
One day, the Bee flies his dancing companion to the sea. He speaks of a friend Hope must lend a piece of his heart and tend to. Hope folds himself into a paper-ship and drifts near the anchorage.
A man of many foibles, and bicycle wheels for legs. The city sits heavy on his chest, like a rock. He has fastened it and carried it to the port, dragged his journal to the ocean’s edge, skimming the waters for words for his songs. The sea salt sits on his tongue. He scribbles between calculated breaths.
Ships twinkle like tealights in a row on the horizon. One with ‘Hope’ written on the starboard bow comes to greet him at the rundown port.
And the man with branches for arms — a gentle Groot, rests his head against a binnacle on the monkey island. His new friend rocks him on the ruffled wave-blanket to put him to sleep.
The bracelet they made from mooring ropes around his wrist reminds him in the morning that they will always share an anchor.
After all-summer-long adventures, Hope comes home to his Prince. To the pink of freshly plucked strawberry and his pouty plump lips and the petrichor from dewy grass sticking out from between the leathery mud where he lays, catching sunlight through floating dandelions.
The Prince looks at him like Hope has somehow caught a rainbow on the prism and placed it on his outstretched hand.
Hope’s inner child goes riding on carousels. Carnivals and careless candor. He feels a little (a lot) in love.
I took a scrap of paper and a pen out of my pocket.
Hope wants to write a poem. But no arrangement of words in fractals can tell of how the sun catches the Prince’s eyes while his breath catches in his throat.
But the Prince reads it off Hope’s mental scribbling. And holds him like the ocean softly holds the sky offshore.
Piece of Prince (P.O.P)
“The strawberries were good there. I brought you some.”
Origami planes, crushed petals locked in resin, an interesting piece of bark— the Little Prince brings something for Hope wherever he goes.
On Mondays and Thursdays, he goes to deliver pressed tea bricks to the Moon Rabbit and catches a few stars from the night sky (they were fireflies in nets, but you could never tell!) to bring back to his friend.
Together, they run the flower-shop for other days of the week— matching sprouts on their heads and smiles on bread-cheeks, safe-keeping unfurled roses from those who have been pricked by a single thorn and decided to trample on all the roses to the end of the earth.
The Little Prince has been there once. But he saved the treacherous rose that drew a bead of blood from the tip of his thumb— saved it in a jar with water and love and now he has a garden that puts the Selfish Giant to shame.
They light a fire for those buying cheap sleep off pavements with moth-eaten blankets for cover, crumbling like autumn leaves beneath careless feet. They go over to every birdless tree to whisper to their abandoned branches.
They sing out loud, but the world seems to be short of hearing. They try again, nevertheless.
On Sundays, they decide on doing people-y things. They go to lakes, spinning rods dangling off their ambitious shoulders. They laugh over failed fishing attempts.
The Prince is unfairly good on skates and snowboards. Hope dances like words from a poem chasing a piano to build its own song. They move their best in different ways.
When Spring Day comes, the Prince sees Hope off in the garden where he puts on his sunflower petals and waits for the Dancing Bee. There he meets a plucked flower who keeps rolling on the ground, while others still bloom.
It rolls and turns, folds the dust and dirt onto itself.
Hope seals his hands around his mouth in a tight cone and calls out to the wind. It rushes in to give the fallen flower a piggyback while it tells stories of all the times it has brought colors and smells and lured the sunlight into the garden for all its friends.
It speaks of the times when the cloud has been stubborn, and the sky has been dry. Parched and praying, it has cried for rain. It also sings of the times when the rain finally came, beading on its petals like little transparent boba balls.
It tells the wind how the last smile it has brought was to the childish face of the little boy who has come roaming in, the one who has also plucked it at the end of the day’s play. But in his forgetfulness, left it lying on the muddy bed.
The wind promises to bring it to a new place for it to bloom again. To bloom with colors and smells and smiles.
The Dancing Bee is ecstatic about meeting Hope. They soon become two bees in a pod.
They keep the flowers company while they work, smiling and singing, gathering nectar in their carefully stitched pockets.
A circle or a figure of eight. To waggle or not is indeed a matter of fate!
Sometimes they fly far, wings in a tired hum, rushed scout or careful hover, picking and choosing the sugar and smiles. They melt it in their toasty palms for their friends. Spoonsful of candied love.
Another day of success at their happiness delivery service.
Hope and Bee— one who comes in the shape of hearts and one with crescent moons for eyes. They slowly dance, tripping feet and aching pinions, eyes straining from tedious flight while those around them move in frenzied buzz like the sun itself has come into their room with warmth and light. Filled and content with the honey they have been brought.
For as long as they dance in tandem, they bring summer and spring. Two bees on a pod, only sweet, sweet honey, no sting.
One day, the Bee flies his dancing companion to the sea. He speaks of a friend Hope must lend a piece of his heart and tend to. Hope folds himself into a paper-ship and drifts near the anchorage.
A man of many foibles, and bicycle wheels for legs. The city sits heavy on his chest, like a rock. He has fastened it and carried it to the port, dragged his journal to the ocean’s edge, skimming the waters for words for his songs. The sea salt sits on his tongue. He scribbles between calculated breaths.
Ships twinkle like tealights in a row on the horizon. One with ‘Hope’ written on the starboard bow comes to greet him at the rundown port.
And the man with branches for arms — a gentle Groot, rests his head against a binnacle on the monkey island. His new friend rocks him on the ruffled wave-blanket to put him to sleep.
The bracelet they made from mooring ropes around his wrist reminds him in the morning that they will always share an anchor.
After all-summer-long adventures, Hope comes home to his Prince. To the pink of freshly plucked strawberry and his pouty plump lips and the petrichor from dewy grass sticking out from between the leathery mud where he lays, catching sunlight through floating dandelions.
The Prince looks at him like Hope has somehow caught a rainbow on the prism and placed it on his outstretched hand.
Hope’s inner child goes riding on carousels. Carnivals and careless candor. He feels a little (a lot) in love.
I took a scrap of paper and a pen out of my pocket.
Hope wants to write a poem. But no arrangement of words in fractals can tell of how the sun catches the Prince’s eyes while his breath catches in his throat.
But the Prince reads it off Hope’s mental scribbling. And holds him like the ocean softly holds the sky offshore.
