Slight and still
pieces of it weakening,
deteriorating there.
Properties of it
scattering before passing
into nothingness. . . . . .
I imagine its fragile impression splintering there in the light. However brief its wreckage, the eyes walking into its mystery can get lost in the sweet fragmentation of its lessening. Time all the while presses on, possessing an architecture all its own. Each second always at work emitting a steady pulse with an impeccable regularity.
No comments:
Post a Comment