Well, this slow slobby chill,
Oozing down the hill,
Of main and mean fill
That rolls El memory de fill
Is enemy of life’s ransom drill.
Is it the Sun slowly uncovering his eyes,
Out of the weary, comfy darklet, from a fight of flipped folds of half-witty shiny dots as prints,
Or the dreamy, dusty dearth drooling out to the dusk of Daybreak which sprints?
Both predicaments are signature’s sloth.
Yet, alive are we, in line with whimsical fantasies,
By the random blaze beside.
Aashiq S
Karnataka, India
Ig: @Seamless_self
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