Something was not polite in signs. The smell of incarcerated bed of gods was floating down. A subdued shadow of black moon was climbing on the window. And each house had offered a son, to rage a war of retribution.
the end of a thought is never for its death, but for a new beginning; there is always a meaningful silence, a metamorphosis, I do ever find, between a stop and its succeeding word like that of death into birth
Between the times, between the rhymes, the beat of life goes on, Though sometimes stumbling through the dark, before the night has gone, And yet again it can be dazzled by the rising of the dawn Like many crumbling edifices
If time stops for no one, not even for love A straight line unbroken from morning to dusk Then my life is hollow, there’s nothing spellbound And seasons of living are well traveled ground If life’s made of spaces instead