By the time you realize that this is poetry,
you would be sliding into the
third line
The fourth will whisper my -
Perhaps the fifth will run into the
sixth, telling you of my expectations
I have thrown caution to the wind, to
reap a typhoon of curiosity. My eyes have refused to be dim'd like the eyelids of an eclipse towards realism.
Occurrences are going nude daily and people refuse to digest the meal whose aroma reveals to us about the mirage attire worn by hope.
Books of faith remain lame towards the dashing quests of hunger, poverty, social vices. It's always at the door, casting st john's fishing net - This apparition.