Lintocmf

As the hourglass lets its soul sliding, Through its pinch to hit the bottom, As a new dune incarnates with every hour, Through its race along the moment of bliss. The tussle endures elsewhere though, With the ticking of needles at a rhythmic pace. The mind attempts a race against time, With a swift voyage on the never-ending path. The one I wanted the most to stay, But couldn’t be kept often at bay, The moment the race begins to sway, Time carries everything away. Bound to go far away, Never to return, To its rest, though.  Linto

  R eferred to as a strange dialect, W ith its end being sheer utterance, W hile quietness adorns its beginning, R ipping apart from the chaos and fractals.        A n unscripted language read with heart,      W hile seldom judged as a mark of wisdom,      W here it prevails over the clamour of notions,      A nd proves anger and absolute aversion. O ften attributed to the confessions of boredom, T alking out louder than the blabbers of the time machine, T earing apart the vicious, yet possessed thoughts, O wned it though after a series of cacophonous shrieks and protests.     S ilence , Yes it’s my fiery evaporation of boiling thoughts in eternal action.                                                                   ...