ceasing the moments in the many of the few ... Sitting in the perpetual pile of time ... Standing at the edge of a precipice vacant in space ... Vertical in grasping and hurling past times ... Horizontal in warmth of peace or boggled with concepts in middles of muddles in middles ...
the mind at work ... Clearing in light to why we burden ourselves so much in this life ...
How habits are hardest in hinder from harvesting heaps of horrific heels of hounding a house ... a home once homely and inviting ... to abysmal artefacts of archaic aromas and insensitivity in why it would be happening .... Adding further misery muddles and clutter to a already intolerable time ticking into a waste of energy and a life
of which I am still seeing ... reeling and reliving in a perpetuality which is as cruel ... as it is barbaric and merciless
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