To become the greatest outlier as the west wind whimpers.
To get drunk incurably with the unknown.
To walk along the periphery of peripheries.
Let his exuberance die in its early ages.
My feeble mind is to resurrect.
Whatever interlocks in them two is moral stupidity. It is nothing but burning embers, rotten leaf residues.
The string of smoke is so-called love by them, which is full of halitosis.
Damn it, morons. All I see from you there is to be drifting along, to be heating up each other by matches.
Love has to be , even transitory, anti-gravity.
Love is another me breathing without fear. Love is another me waving at the end.
To die pursuing this transcendent invention.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoetryOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
