honesttoblog Posted February 16, 2011 Share Posted February 16, 2011 Periodicals The soft rustle of the thick sheets slipping over one another, a tick of the terrible time turning in my ear; the mountain of pages poured over in a nights work. Flooding my mind. Articles of ancient times, achieved before the senseless speed of modernity. Longing for night-long feasting of fauns, dancing round within the annuls of some unattainable dream, torn down long ago. Loves; long loved and lost, burn and die. The carved characters on nameless white stones, worn down by never ending time the jailor, shaking the keys and screaming, inescapable echoes. Predictions, the fury fire for the future, I find myself bound to beg for relief, for forgotten music. The knowledge of witnesses of ancient times, crushed and mutilated, waiting for mercy. Time will not give it. credit it to 'Sue De'Nim' & a friend of mine JPG Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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