poetic prose
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There are pieces that I have written that seem to write themselves. There are pieces that even several years later, I remember where I was and how I felt when I wrote them. There are pieces that the narration and music for the audio recording hit the emotional mark of the piece perfectly. Endlessness is
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The snow gently falls outside my window as my fingers sit idle on the keyboard. I can’t seem to take my eyes off its falling white powder. By February the snow, while always beautiful, is not all together desirable. Winter drags on and the cold becomes bitter. I miss the warm weather, the rain, and
SB LACROIX 