NOTHING

Occupied in a realm of nothingness, with occasional flash backs, montages of most recent past synchronize in the minds eye. Water tastes like liquid married to salt. Wandering the earth in search of sense, man seeks out his own truth; whatever it is that makes breathing seem worthy.

Time is never introduced as a friend.. Clueless as to where the ticks are tucked in. How to handle emotions that time forbids? A tune up will not mask the maturity it lacks. A child still craves for its mothers love spread far and wide the oceans and seas; the river of tears have now merged with unquenchable thirst for an embrace.
 
Dusty winds and dry roads crack the egos of feeble and fragile souls. Moist lashes are more than what they seem...maturity is in the ability to keep the cheeks dry. This is the facade many long to be projected, so protrude on, into the role of expectancy.
 

The script has a blueprint, broken down in levels wider than the bridge between nostrils. Shallow yet broken down in sequels stretched out and magnified beyond the heavens. It is a short life and with every passing dawn, souls awaken with the possibility of being broken by the day.

 

What more a soul that has been conditioned to expect less from the earth. Yet the clucking in the morning is melodious, not that much attention was paid to sleep at night, but optimism lies in the hopeless expectation of running into that soul lost in the oceans.

 

 Every time moist eye lashes meet water, there is belief that a reunion is soon in effect...water...sand...dust to dust. Soon, nothing will matter.