“Crackers are short on sparkle.”
― Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind
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Some days are grey
Let’s face it
They are just flat grey
The world outside out window is grey
Our mind is grey and fuzzy
But worst,
That inner place, were we live most deeply
Is shrouded in gray
Wandering into our soul is like slinking through
The wet, dank smelly streets of old London
Hoping not to meet Jack the Ripper
Today thought it was going to be grey
It had great intentions
The fog clung to the ground persistently
Like a newborn baby to its mother
There were shades of gray, the listless gray of sunless snow
Trees were coated with hoar frost
but the light was missing
And then, it wasn’t
a little break and a streak of light
and magic happened
the snow glittered
the hoar frost became nature’s way of putting on the Ritz
blue broke through grey
and even the gray, now hovering over sparkling white
got a personality
some days are like that
it just needs a glimmer, a sliver
of Sacred
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