Some things I can not know
like the scent of rain upon feather
or the sound of heartbeat enthroned;
or shall I say,
merely atoms and mutiny,
traitor to all–
in dingy corners
saturated with the lacy odour of decay,
the fragrance of death and earth,
mushrooms and smouldering roses.
Thought paid to assassinate thought,
or should I say,
the echo of glorfied heartbeat
comme le parfum des plumes qui glissent sur la pluie,
Thank you for reading and staying with me though I have been very distant lately. I have been both very busy and suffering from a severe depletion of energy even open my laptop even when I do have the time. So thank you for still reading and waiting patiently.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”