Old her crammed into her vanitiesslipping her hands into time's pockets.This pocket having as big events as chasing eclipses on a starry sky, or vice versa.Verse in, vice out.The pat on the shoulder from the child they used to be, a peek-a-boo kind of sign,with a grin on those small, freckled facesreliving it once again in wrinkled memoriessuffering from not finding the fair sharebetween the past and the future.Be once again in this together.The otherness is not a thing they climb the ladder foris not a thing that happens to manyIt is one almost no one strives for when there is as much as the future can holdInsane to remain restless when you need to rest from all the burdens, flat out - there is a voice that whispers.There is a little space unfilled, or rather filled with nothingJust when you decide to jot the square into a diacritical mark called roundness of a shape unknownFlattened the Earth once again into your hands, also called 'Mmasticated grass as the path flattens out'Called as in 'named after his father's treacherous behaviour'No saint is there to praise his doings.Spend as little as you can on thisSleep wrapped into your dreamsThat prevent you from taking actionwhen you wake up.Photo: freepik Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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