A network of tangled veins buried under wearily sculptured visage
pulling and grasping the sages of bygone years. A fountain up roaring and thundering
underneath the naked sky visited seldom by some skulls, pulling and grasping. A
drop of water sprinkled on many a year parched sand, dropped and drank in no
instance to its thirstiness, pulling and grasping. A hearth of clay into it fire burning into
ashes, flames and continues, whereupon the clay reluctant to burning procession
instead, blossoming its coldness and shine; pulling and grasping. Those eyes, the eyes of thousands; those
eyes, the eyes of none. Those high elevated check bones steeping deep and away
out of the dents of the skies and the moons. Those tenacious brown balls built
farther and deeper within their separate pale meadows. Those parched lines
bulging out of every single brick, completely perpetuated and accomplished, concealing
in every possible expression if it would've ever touched its chateau of antiquity.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Why there is always so quietness after every destruction? From the time of the first human on Earth till now. Whether it is some miry ocea...
-
Ode to the Morning Star The night was fading all The dawn was prevailing all The ...
-
Why there is always so quietness after every destruction? From the time of the first human on Earth till now. Whether it is some miry ocea...
This is so good.Girl,keep doing what you are doing.❤
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteCommendable endeavour..
ReplyDeleteArre waah🌸
ReplyDeleteMa sha Allah💖
Keep it up❤
Impressed❤
Speechless💖