Shining with this black ink on the paper,
Old thoughts scribble to play in the hay.
With a penny to spare and hands in my pocket,
I reached the shore and threw it away.
Old feelings face dying delusion,
Old preachings prevent exuding emotion,
Etching out a line of aching division,
Old monks suffer from an adamant dismay.
They struggle in this crowd of a chequered mosaic.
and,paint the colors of weaving passions,
and,free the spirits of the saints who say,
"Play with your possessions and elude your pretence,
This field is devoid of the pebbles of excellence,
All we need is a divisive iridescence,
We are all gifts of our presence,
and,You are the masturbating miracle of innocence(ignorance)."
3 years ago