A dead matter,
Flown out soul,
Though I intend, I indulge
Many a times I kill
Stand in the street.
Is asking for a complex thought
Whose flight of fancy
And exuberant words
Because in free moments
Watching through the spreading eyes of binocular,
Brief account of existence is found, in the circular routine
And rejection of that rock's placement on the hill;
Inclusion of our involuntary mask is
Deserving a place where,
Hollow performance of a fake ease
Can not induce me as I watch.
Sickness of his involuntary pain,
Requesting with her soul:
Had we planted to ruin the seed?
Or won't you let me harvest,
Your ageing now must take it's best,
True little hymns chanting you think,
And dreaming to that divine link
For the work you had done to rest.
Abstract solitude of a country setting
draws me for a view to the window
where I draw the curtain down.
Of my desire
Turns to be a