When all else fades away in the back of my mind,
and nothing that I behold in the unseen world
of your reality, a vertigo of your dream,
remains but a drag of suspended consciousness,
of what is still hung aloft the ghastly night:
then I think what beauty be of use
to such trifle things that I write,
of less beats than my heart can afford
against e'ery changing face before the sun,
which by days to love for more reflection,
not through my glass I'll show thee,
be more temperate than summer.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2013.
All Rights Reserved.
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