Mist is over heads like foaming, a fear shuddering from head to toe, lest as far as to recognize, breath have some other meanings, to if nothing is real yet complex and imaginary.
To tremble is to feel the course in silence in the midst of music, prose like never had rose to the shore.
A path that have waterways in winters and all to possess is swim to another shore before the evening.
Imagination here is at its peak, for them could be a painting, for another could it be an essay and for another could it be nothing, the one who doesn't seeks this shadow.
Point a finger on them that went wrong yet adjoint to the hearts, pretending to be strangers, alone who sing in their silent rooms.
All I have to say, something rose , through minor levels to upper in lesser times.
No comments:
Post a Comment