Presumptuously, this is all but an impulse. Heart at bleak. Mind in a concurred state of delusion and abstraction, alike. Soul still alive and breathing, yet lacking, battling of warmth — for dry, icy storms seeped in through the evident cracks. Still, I have paved my way through, broke down, even. For I still believe there is something, something, albeit unknown to myself, has been worth the reason I have fought my entire life for. It was a risk. I am at risk. But the belief was stronger. My visions of that something are stronger, more vivid, all as if it was bound to morph into physical reality. And so, I continued;
I once believed, no, I still do, as childish it must've been to admit, that all but time has to meet its end. Time is immortal after all. And by this make-believe foolproof logic, I conjured this impulsivity.
An impulse per second. And a mark of immortality for each. All of so time will leave all to perish but these words I had in mind. Ones I cannot fathom to tell in front of you, but will forever live through. For lifetimes. For millenniums. For centuries. For decades. For years. For months. For weeks. For days. For hours. For minutes.
For seconds.
For every second of the clock, I think of you and you alone.
Let's be undying within poetries together.
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PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission from the author/publisher.
