Dry Drops

Gestures of civilised parting betray emotions of profanity when confronted by sleet of pain.Garbles of fate are prosecuted in the crucible of karma and the humane elves intend on the knowledge pastled out in the yogics fail to comprehend the script of the healr.Left confounded in the parish of the obscure cartons of the abbyss take turnkey affairs in the part of the grand drama of the self and eternal gurus are stymed in the pcituresque harizons of existence

The say

Senses benumb at diagnosis,a vacant gaze into infinity driving questions at the supreme somewhere in the horizon waiting for an answer that never will come.The fabric of self is stretched to the limitand pertinent meanings whither away into nothingness as the dawn of reality nears.Poor selves like tightened strings they try to operate with ease and to oblivion it extends

Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy forever ,
Its lovliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness;
But still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
- John Keats


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