who can figure out the way of the sun? I journeyed after that sweet golden ray I went where desire pinned me I watched life blooming all around I’ve dreamt many dreams of us the sun energized my heart’s delight with a myriad of blooming flowers at last, you appeared before me standing vibrantly like the first flower of spring This piece is an excerpt from thoughts of love   by Sunday Bloo. © 2026 Sunday Bloo. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed,

I knew you as you knew me I will uphold you through it all sunlight danced across the dark side of my soul shadow dipped me in light light dipped me in shadow and behold I am a kaleidoscope This piece is an excerpt from the other sides of love by Sunday Bloo. © 2026 Sunday Bloo. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or adapted without written permission from the author.

Silence is a safe space to gather the pieces. Not the dramatic kind of safety that demands a triumph. Not the kind that waits for a speech, or a confession, or a grand declaration of courage. Silence is gentler than that. It is the quiet room after the storm has passed.  The hour before dawn, when the sky has not yet decided what color it will become. The pause between one breath and the next. In silence, the scattered fragments of a life begin to recognize each other again.

The field always felt different after midnight. During the day, it belonged to shepherds, wandering horses, and the slow music of wind through tall grass. But when the moon climbed high, and the earth turned silver, the land seemed to remember an older language. Sylvan had begun visiting the field without knowing why. Perhaps it was restlessness. Perhaps it was instinct. Or perhaps something in the night had begun calling his name.  The young man arrived just as the moon reac

At the far edge of afternoon, when the sky had begun to turn the color of pressed violets, a young woman arrived at a fork in the road. Her name was Elinora Vale. She had walked since morning past hedgerows still breathing with winter, past fields where the grass bent like quiet applause in the wind. The hem of her pale blue walking dress carried dust from the road, and her bonnet ribbon had come loose, trailing softly at her shoulder. Two roads waited before her. One curved

I am a conjurer of language. I am a weaver of dreams spun from the very fabric of thought. With the whispered breath of a phrase, I transmute the simplest thoughts into shimmering rivers of words, flowing with depth and beauty. With the flick of a pen, I transmute the simplest words into golden rivers of meaning, flowing with grandeur and majesty. Like a sorcerer, I shape sound and rhythm, turning mere syllables into incantations. Like a celestial, I stir the soul, awaken the