by Andy Tu

Yellow streaks above; the sun pours blue in icy showers. The hills are green. The moon, a crimson grey. I stand before a waterfall as my voice sirens around my head. In the mist I see the colors of my soul; they ebb and swirl, rushing upwards toward the rocks: I am not who I thought I was. I am not the eyes in the reflection, breaking and reforming, but the rainbow that beams across, holding everything together. I ask myself if this is real. The crash of the water answers: there is little dreaming for those who have awakened.

Andy lives in California and travels as often as possible. Contact him at: andyctu@gmail.com to talk about writing, or anything!