Hundredth Strand Turn Grey

Lay on the floor conserved in form of ball

Submerging in light of the seventh heaven, the 9th call

And I want to abide, move my fingers and fly

However I’m stuck in the lust of nightfall and time

And as darkness paves the way, a rhythmic pace of heart

My ribs take the beating, my eyes are downcast

Wanton night plays siren to the constellations

The nebula forms in the way of perfect stars

And night twinkles even if its midnight color is dark

Beyond reason frail is the fail identity

Or is it my pride savaged by my procrastinating serenity

With the will of iron I raise myself and then fall on my knees

Sitting through the darkness in need of illumination and certainty

I raise my voice which spills in a slurr of rum

The hundredth strand turn grey before you and I become one

 

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