Sips of dawning hues reclining on the gulf of darkened shade the resting calm within. These walls permeate with the crackling reverb of hope. Kneading a renew are the after washed bleeds of white. The siren beckons a howling of winds, a clamouring snare crystallises the view. No more are they ringing, the unhinged bells of self to the tune of a broken down bagpipes of doom. Lone is the note in a cordial fragrant piled petals of saddened morseful you. Untouched gathering of embers light the cloud of infinite cosmic lure. Come down to a pale grounding where silence halts our reverb calls for direction its the counterfeit and scorned truth. Fallen scribes and harsh remembering can make us foolish to our innate inextinguishable grief. These now dormant yet cyclical visions blind us from each other. Showing nothing affirming everything we sharpen the teeth of division and satire over conjecture. Closing in on itself the nebulous gates of reason void the delight create coercion and deceit. The air shifts and the beat of the drum synchronises to a millennia of life. But silence dawns after each long restless night.
