Was it so
expensive to believe so? It were burdens
of hope to end up the circle of life and no other theory could deny it? It
might be great to know it, she says, on the next moment, hour, minute when all
shall spread its sculptured wings and
though it feels like a renewed nightmare crawling into hour’s catastrophic big
ben.
Silence
have locked meanings on the streets and people may cover up themselves by veils
of illusions. It has killed passion of life into a chalice for good. She cannot
admitted by all means, it were too heavy to cross the multiple faceted along
with masks. She doesn’t need one, once she dreamed to wear it but now she has
realized that it’s useless.
She has
repeated constantly to herself, life was
a prison of deluded wishes confined to
hyphenate the atmosphere. A cloudy prison of life’s, she says, to reach out for
the cage of dusty thoughts.
The
stardust over a pair of blacked
hypertext to frame the picture of life. Be gotten all those fairly
misconception of people round, then it passed away the imagery fulfilled
of society’s unwillingness and prejudices of any kind. She cannot change
opinions to other’s exchanged dreams. Therefore thoughts rumbling faster and
faster into her head to expire on the tickets to life. She has erased old
principles because mentality is distorted all the time by daily events which
may change your life for the best. This ideal of hers would never die amongst
bunches of bone blossoming from above. To eradicate mentality and its cruel
barter with life it means so much to her, likewise people have mirrored their
souls into the window pane.
She
imagined the life’s stages as being pyres of hope, it was not like she says.
Never imagined it, she continues silence from all, the dead would be envious on
me, will they? Her tiny heart strikes
the hours into minutes
Words
were not as she thought like. Mere words, she repeated herself, people put the
blame on words likewise it weren’t so capable to distinguish amongst the
limitedness from all.
Wearing the
mask of bigotry thus it were the great impact in front of all. The first and
the last mask and nor have heard of claws to scratch the formicarium . She
watches on the window, all those armours are floundering snowflakes over the
sleepless hours to conjure TO BE a
foreign incantation to all those chambers of echoes beneath her soul. It will
snow, she says, it will snow by dreams amongst this cradle of reality,
forgotten alphabets of small world she’s been living in. She
might noticed from all, but it should appear as rampant , nor hectic as it used
to be once. This claw of life has dried up now, she thought of it too many
times. Although she have to move on
following the golden brick path, an grey clouded shape to conceal all from the
start. Move on, Move on, Move on said a
shadowy voice , though she has said that echoes are flawless. It were like? She must notice a paper cut dream from now on?!Smashed it into pieces the corollary of life’s?!Nor
it seemed to grow within the hours
passed. Obsession from all were designed to a spider’s web on the daily canvas.
She has
repeated constantly to herself, life was
a prison of deluded wishes confined to
hyphenate the atmosphere. A cloudy prison of life’s, she says, to reach out for
the cage of dusty thoughts.
Grey lines
are covering the truth beyond a perfect
calligraphy though, she has written
about a cage of thoughtful emotions, otherwise it would cut off your hopes ,
nor mutual conversion of meanings might be repelled. She used to confess all
this, I say it were thousands of hopes drown into wax figures of mankind’s , it
can be expressed by gloominess of daily
life. It were so many delusions ever since, she says it would turn on the clock for thousand time to number
hours passed without any regard on the matter. Such a delightful overview from all, afterwards she may contemplate silence from all!
People were cursed
by mirrors, she would say, searching with a glance into the chariots of
clouds, it will take away her cold
thoughts by now. And the story is dead and gone. She doesn’t know what is it,
as if she had ever knew, will you? She will never die for an damn idea, but she
adores mankind to be like her own flesh dragged on the ground. She cannot
speak, she writes on the walls all round everything she thought of. But she
writes, even if she cannot speak . Again she is staring at the wall asking the
dust, finding up for merciful answers
never be gotten . It stirs all your energy to conceive from all?!Yes and she
said it were. She has found another wall
to write to, but she cannot speak at all. I can’t speak, she says. Women are
contemporary metaphors, feathered
emotions within words, she would think. It has never existed a story. It must be dreadful to know the story
behind her eyes. You will never shriek
for it, she says. She was decided to write a letter to nowhere for thousands of lost hours.
Dear hour rampant/running deep
within my …..No she cut off the lines, it’s not fair, she says, I should find another vow, but I won’t write it as I
wished it. Dear hour-less, hectic and headstrong I’m not indulged to such
manner to believe so, she has to number less and saved more energy. Beyond her glasses I remain
silenced for years passed.
She vows
always for life to be expelled by a prison of dust..........
