Story Telling Of This Soul

Black-Smoke

So here goes  my story telling of this soul

All as in the pieces and all as in a whole

Brave as warrior  and victim of its own virtues of time

All scared and still fine

In its inner propaganda and its great urge

The hell and the heaven merge

The philosophy of its own kind

The pieces of art that never goes to any  mind

Seventy assumptions and thirty facts

The whole existence tangle up with some tacts

The circumstances have indeed molded it for so far

But again wasn’t only about it but the beating inside desire’s war

What enigma has it become?

The angle and the demon with it loudest drum !

No particular physics, No Precise the image

but the intense scrimmages

scratching the shell, discarding itself to the outdoors

but where would it go instead falling on the floors

No legs to walk, No words to talk,

No roots below, No wings for high

No precise name to name

for something like that, whom you can blame?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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