Slowly sinking into the land of afterthought.
Finality, entrenches a constant martyrdom.
A deserted island, tastes the love of naught.
The colors are fading, the barter has run.
-
As fossils strangle the withering life star;
like the first rainfall, in a lunar cloud.
The equity assimilates saturdays bazaar;
as a bus stop, in a desert, invites a crowd.
-
Perhaps, the great inquisitor, cares not.
Perchance, we as humans are unimportant.
Our worrries, our fears, our hopes, have begot;
not narry a need for a retort, nor a recant.
-
Doubts are easily assembled, when listless is love.
While the creator wonders warmly upon the wings of a dove!!!!
by ritt