picture perfect

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the rippling waters of the river had found its calamity. the city had awaken with the sun finally rising in familiarity. and there i stood, cupping my hands to hold the hope of what was 
possibility. the ray of possibly  aubade floating gently on my small edged palms. the scent was instinctively fresh, of morning eggs flipped on a pan with sizzling butter and maple syrup. the authentic olfactory of freshly brewed coffee tamely wavered right through my nostrils. there stood reasonings for a simple yet serene atmosphere that i never cherished. i bypassed these uncomplicated measures that grounded my roots of inner sombre.  

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