Sometimes,
when you're in the middle of the work,
The wind hounds your past,
Like a swirling storm, you get lost.
And,
In nexus,
When,
A new star origins
through the spirit of vitality.
the rhythm comes to nerves,
Forget the spirals you've clung, till time,
Like a spinning top falls,
The pain will cease.
YOU ARE READING
The diary
PoetryThe diary of randomly ranting someone, to get through days of melancholy or misery.
