The Book

The streets are filled with colors of lights and that of joy, the children are waving at the time, to cherish it in times of coy, its the bookkeeper marking every step and every note that stitches the pages, all has been set and done, from sinners to the sages.

The writer took off in hurry to put down what he had noted, everything around seemed to him like a short form of his life’s history, into the ancient walls he had been plastering over and over again, deemed to lose at the end eventually called out for the profits with no gains.

The infinite bringing in the lights of the sun shades, the rising fireflies I had besieged, and for what I had raised the flag, the dangerous beckoning of nature's calls, finally, the mortal cried about the money and the numerous cravings.

Hanging by the thread, this moment, fragile at the end, highly threatened, pick your lines carefully weighing their gravity, or else you’ll quickly lose your sanity.