Tuesday, 28 October 2014



In the end, how I die,
Is a moment I meet the sky,
The world created before I came,
constellated as a charted game,
For me to part, myself so even,
fine and so distinguishably weaven,
Holding a fort, concluding the storm,
Of rambling breaths in human form,
Till no more I walk, think or dream,
Consume a story, a lively scream.

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