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Not all rivers
end up in the ocean–
doesn't make their journey
less worthy.

Not all love
ends up in a lover's arms–
doesn't make it any less
worthy.
Have you ever seen a pair of Nine West Folowe Pumps in Red Blooms Floral - or ever held a feathery pair? They offer the pure pleasure of perfection.

You can see them popping up lately, in streetwear silhouette, matched with Dolce & Gabbana’s floral-print leggings, making a duet of blooms—petal upon petal, like a garden in motion, or paired with the new, high-waisted barrel leg jeans, lending a flash of elegance, a bright flourish against dull denim.

They’re visions, wrought as if by the hand of Michelangelo, who once from marble freed David’s pose, or da Vinci, whose brush summoned the Mona Lisa’s secret smile.

In form, they’re d’Orsay cut, sporting curves as deliberate as the Sistine vaults arch. The stiletto heels rise with the ambition of a cathedral’s spire - neither too proud nor too meek, but balanced, like the symmetry of a butterfly’s painted wings.

Upon their surface, blood red blooms unfurl - petals as vivid as spring’s first flush - each blossom a testament to an artist’s hand, in riots of color and romance that dance with the same spirit as a flowerbed at dawn.

No flaws mar their making: the stitchings are true, the fits precise—as if tailored by the muses themselves. Each pair offers its own unique foliations, bespeaking the freedom of a craftsman’s careful art.

Lastly, of course, they’re marvels of harmonious function, lightly cradling and lifting each step - comfort and glamour aren’t adversaries here, but partners in making each step a sonnet and each stride an artist's brushstroke.

Now, maybe you aren’t into fashion - perhaps you’re a male - oh, poor you, I’m sorry, but maybe, just maybe, in times of chaos, you long for the pleasure of inexpensive perfection.
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Songs for this:
Glamour Girl by Louie Austen
This is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 06/26/25:
Sumptuous = something luxurious, magnificent and probably very expensive.
Some of the foulest things
Were conceived
In the most beautiful
Of places
The pure alpine breeze
Cooled the mechanics
Of the elimination
Of races
Verdant green
The backdrop
For reeducation
Stark Mother Russia
The denouncements
The Cossackification
White Plains
Trinity
The United Nations.
 Jun 24 Bekah Halle
alia
Let’s not sleep—
let’s overthink!
Let’s rethink
every awkward blink.

Let’s write a novel
in our head,
then cry about
what we should’ve said.

Sleep is boring.
Peace is fake.
Let’s spiral till
the morning breaks.
 Jun 23 Bekah Halle
Maria
I had an odd dream wherein there was the Love.
The Love that I had never met afore.
The Love where I drew in again, again.
The Love I’ve only heard or not before.

The Love for which the world is not enough.
The Love that makes me bite my lips in full.
The Love that is triumphally triumphed.
My so dreamlike Love and trully thankful.

My Love where is no dirt and falsehood.
The Love which has no other base than love...
But my dream’s passed and I’m left alone with
Alien, so ******, feather-brained Unlove.
That's the poem about Unlove, which can make too much pain. It's often ugly and ******...
Thank you very much for reading it! 🙏
 Jun 20 Bekah Halle
Kalliope
I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.
If I weather your storms, could you handle mine?
Storm chasers have never been easy to find.
a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...

<>><<>
the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?

the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?

instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from

morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies

words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia

means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed

and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the

first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just

yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
*descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past
^
3:07pm
a bright sun grilled day, in a cold June
Juneteenth 3025

on the Isle of, in the piet's nook
Rings of Headrick
Stabilize the flight
Of a broken equal

In zero atmosphere
I record you remembering to smile
Pixel pleasure
Whether or not
In zip ties

Cloud on the brow
Rain in the ashtray
Storms we all breathe in heavily

An end to camaraderie
By critical distance
By counting back from ten

Zero is an even number
When discord is no longer odd
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