When we a write something with love or sadness or anger, any other emotion we feel, what we capture is a beautiful arrangement of words made up to rhyme and reflects the writers ardour, is a poem.
Fineness and depth within ones heart
At times fail t...
I can cry for hours. The hourglass tells its tale. The sand slides down through its hold, which it couldn't really make.
Even the strongest couldn't hold the brown mess, they call the sand is. Escapes in front of your eyes, through your firmest fist, just like a magic of his.
You try to tame it, May be you'd claim it but control is beyond you. Try for it and fool you shall be called, the tales for its madness aren't small.
I remember once, not appreciating the soil my earth bears. Wasn't a pretty sight my love, The stories are still heard.
But don't forget one thing my dear, What lies beneath this escaping little sand. Heavy and thick the molten takes you, and turns you into ash. You are nothing once its surfaced, The tale you heard won't be helpful. You'd know when the warmth would become wrath. If you aren't faithful.
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