Masses of these multi-colored miracles rock and sway in the Indian Summer breeze. The humidity that choked them for so long, smothering their petals with disillusionment and disdain, is beginning to thin. Dissipating into the beautiful brutal truth of fall. As the air molecules spread apart, their life lines are freed, their breath is released. Their tension takes off, stemming an oxymoronical rebirth at the prewritten end. The cold winds are coming in, and soon the trees' multi-colored miracles too will be stripped from their branches, leaving empty, honest space.
And in this space we'll find the truest miracle of all: a soul writing its newest beginning's fall.
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