It’s another dull July morning—sodden, deadened and passionless. Gray sheets of clouds are stacked, one upon another, in abandonment of all expectations and expressions. An unexciting dawn slowly steps in.
I fear this stolid presence of moments. I fear this suspense surreptitiously buried in prospect. I fear these frowns of eventuality so perfectly painted upon my hopes. I lie defenceless, curled up in own tiny space with all judgements neatly proscribed.
The reasons are imprisoned, brutally crushed in soul cages for all past revolts. They have no pain to hide, yet it remains secreted for expressions not being so forthcoming. Still I glimpse a veiled hearth of rebellion tenderly smudged into patches of obscurity upon walls and roofs of the coops while the sullen sky bluntly folds of her smoky wings to conceal all radiance of the sun.
Only stream of pleasure flows through an infinite valley of dreary moments is of irrefutable divinity in truth.
I fear this stolid presence of moments. I fear this suspense surreptitiously buried in prospect. I fear these frowns of eventuality so perfectly painted upon my hopes. I lie defenceless, curled up in own tiny space with all judgements neatly proscribed.
The reasons are imprisoned, brutally crushed in soul cages for all past revolts. They have no pain to hide, yet it remains secreted for expressions not being so forthcoming. Still I glimpse a veiled hearth of rebellion tenderly smudged into patches of obscurity upon walls and roofs of the coops while the sullen sky bluntly folds of her smoky wings to conceal all radiance of the sun.
Only stream of pleasure flows through an infinite valley of dreary moments is of irrefutable divinity in truth.
