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The screaming vow of a haunting soul keeps the coldness of my life stable. The cold of irritating silence, that keeps me awake. The burning chambers of my eyes defy the plans of my wandering mind. Still I see things as concrete as it used to be. One big question is the sounds of booming thunder on the weak battlefield. They battle on the imaginary platform on where a thing becomes abstract. Like this text that cannot be understood by the majority, numbers of three awaken my passion for no such reason. I better use the definition of writing as “to express one’s self” for I already knew that only I can understand this.The reflection of one’s wing on the concrete world becomes one’s dignity. Worlds that has conversion on matters linking the two. Funny ‘cause there’s no door to each of them.
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posted by Raindropmaster @ 2:22 PM
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