Nothing is meaningless if speech and silence fill void, flowing in the same force, and no one blocks the road to dreaming.
Now I wonder the world is a painting, an imaginary chamber where captives sing, like a caged dove obeying a hunter enticing free birds to live in bliss. And then I see darkness of dusk fade away as the sun begins to peek in the east.
Dream is a mystery sometimes unfolded amidst creeping eeriness unstipulated to the seemingly compos mentis. As long as my stint in your thought bears a meaning for life because I wish to worship the sanctity of your feeling for me and tree,
After so many years, more than a decade or so, when you pass my home, don’t forget to take a look at the humble roof of haystack and wattle if not the humble me waiting to have a look at your eyes for an epoch.
Maybe you forgot, or dementia possessed you before our union—how else could you keep aloof from your soul, your other soul, your eupnoea?