Now . . .
The journey is halved,
Age is getting dark,
And
Loss starts composing it's prices.
Running trees want
to rest under loneliness of broken sun . . .
Shadows keep talking with rain drops
While
I'm still craving with my soul's scout.
It's painfully hard
to choose a spot
between the point of optimism
And
the point of pessimism.
Know that I am still far . . .
Quite far enough
to reach through the absolute truth
And
not to grab pieces of escapism.
BS
29 August 2010
7:21 pm
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