i think it is going ...
but i can never be too sure...
its like a termite....
keeps coming back...
eating away all the juicy stuff...
leaving skeletons...
and finely powdered hope
crushed in my hand... white shimmer...
like tar in the moonlight. sand in the sun
the more u want to hold it the more it slips.
and falls on the ground, scatters away to unknown lands.
frangments to individual unrecognisable grains.
trampled upon by prostitutes and beggars.
and pimps of reviere.
No comments:
Post a Comment