Summer night. The footpath lies in an awkward posture and keeps conscious like a newly married bride rehearsing her dresses, but casually. Upon it, like many layers of a metaphor, are shoes. Shoes of people who are walking with a purpose or not. There are no last lines of philosophies. Its only a disciplined rows of bricks pitifully cemented with each other without a choice. You never knew if they could fit, but none cared. A lot of lives walk on them.
There is a black spider that weaves its web meticulously on the street lamp that won't glow again. That is convenience. The concentration on the spider's eyes is something to learn, to envy, to fear. We have some in our heads. They create webs when the purple shades of understanding meet the green compromises. Chemists say its dangerous in normal temperature. We still mix, being proud, each. They explode and/or they are called love.
The ferry driver is a lonely soul to his last trip. The deep dark river holds beyond the emotions he can fathom. And there are a few reluctant people on the boat who avoid the river, the present, as they would, their dark and questioned past. Everyone wants a closure then. Hurried smiles exchanged, the ferry is run, as fast. The driver only knows he has to come back alone. He fears the dark. It has the memories of strangers.
Three dots, incoherent. They celebrate life by seeing others', by living the shares. Sometimes, while walking up the sea shore when you see snails and the transparent water that washes your feet, a thought ponders, you are but a part of the lives summed up,
just a part but an important part of lives of others.
SoUmY@
There is a black spider that weaves its web meticulously on the street lamp that won't glow again. That is convenience. The concentration on the spider's eyes is something to learn, to envy, to fear. We have some in our heads. They create webs when the purple shades of understanding meet the green compromises. Chemists say its dangerous in normal temperature. We still mix, being proud, each. They explode and/or they are called love.
The ferry driver is a lonely soul to his last trip. The deep dark river holds beyond the emotions he can fathom. And there are a few reluctant people on the boat who avoid the river, the present, as they would, their dark and questioned past. Everyone wants a closure then. Hurried smiles exchanged, the ferry is run, as fast. The driver only knows he has to come back alone. He fears the dark. It has the memories of strangers.
Three dots, incoherent. They celebrate life by seeing others', by living the shares. Sometimes, while walking up the sea shore when you see snails and the transparent water that washes your feet, a thought ponders, you are but a part of the lives summed up,
just a part but an important part of lives of others.
SoUmY@
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