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  • hiesenberg 4d

    �������� �������������� ���������� ���� �������������� ����������������, ������ ������������������������ ������������ ���� ���������� �������� �������������� �������������� �������������� ������ �� ���������������� ���� �������� �������������� ���� ������ ��������-�������� �������������� ���� ������ ������������ ���������������� ��������. Bereavement surge like sentinels overcoming brutal human walls in the ruined hands when the umbilical cord is torn off from the womb like fibrous roots by a demonic typhoon. Flood usher with the ear-splitting screams of the rocks in the eleventh hour carrying the allegory of the evanescent aeon is a quietus of a precarious arcane.

    ��he sweat of african rain dripping from the masked small famine cities of the bismuth sky touching the summer human bodies that curled up like millipedes in the corners of the knotted mats of wild serengeti. A petrichor of relief emerges from the cracks in the roof tile that stretches over their head but they are busy folding the x-ray films in half on its proper position to escape the leaking room.

    ��lthough the scars of human-animal conflict are evident on the deforested man-made frontiers however vultures circling over the worm-infested carcasses of tuskers that have lost their lives due to animal poaching are a constant sight. Insects and human beings are equal here, burning in the heaps to death in the huts without electricity, meanwhile, the youth of the forest betray the emerald lungs for thirty cents of silver to escape from starvation.

    ��erhaps it was when they betrayed the okavango river of love that it began to divert and block the arteries of their heart. The black color left in the aisle is the ash of a handful of separations, but when they look in the mirror, they can see the burning feathers spreading and melting into the darkness of the day submerging the mournful twilight in the depths. And again they fail in their attempt to find shadows under the umbrella of the pious sun, the greedy approach force them to show the maps of the virgin forest on their wrinkled skin to the outsiders.

    ��hus, when a man who has become a mere scapegoat with only his clothes on is deceived by the gambles of deceit, while rich thoughts pierce the heart of the forest and sell it on the black market. The number of ribs per day is measured by mixing tobacco smoke with the blood that flows through the veins, whilst soaking the eyelids in the throes of loss while living on the bitter memories.

    ��unger on an endless journey is an internal battlefield where if you and I were the only two trapped in a mysterious island and need to survive, one among us, called as a lively carnivore, will one day have to kill and eat another. The leaves of hope embrace the wind that blows in the dense trees but when the flammable fingers of fire touch those having a jigsaw backbone and chiseled eyes full of terrors in the jungle, the seeds that germinate around them from the ashes of their cruelty after the occasional rain grant the chlorophyll the life they need.

    ��s the bloodthirsty leeches crawl on the naked bodies in search of the rusted smell of hot blood, the crushed childhood in the dry bones clasp their hands for food. There is still a small continent left to flow into the tears of joy of a group of people breathing in the sound of the wings of huge man-made dragonflies from the sky. When they taste the food of survival in the food parcels, they forget their sorrows for a moment with a smile on their cheeks. �������� ���� ������������������ ���� ������ ������������������ ������ ���� ���� ������ ���������� ���� ����������������������?
    ( pardon if any mistakes)
    #start #wod

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    Sandals of helpless sunflowers covered in malodorous mud inside the mounds, cloudburst that snatch away the blinking stars are suicide bombers. In the revengeful needles of sharp rain, the wet skies are in severe atonement, As the choir of the wind waiting for the somber musical fete of ruptured clouds, the wounded heart of october burst into tears at the base of stunted bonsai trees. A layer of lightning tag the last photo adding #forget-me-not and lit the candles to bury the sicilian sun. As time went on stumbling the tainted breath of half-smoked dead cigars, the words sweating inside the burning belly filled with waves and the thunder of the abyss cried many eyes out. When the opportunistic hunters pounce on the flesh of the bodies carrying religion opening the secret corridors of the burial grounds, let the sea soaked in the red fire ball within the heart of the felled trees in western ghats smile. Why the rain inside us still falling like madness carrying zillion crowns of thorns? Maybe the penumbral heart of moon is the necromancer of the brine palace to wash away the stains of greed dissolved in our blood.
    ©

  • hiesenberg 3w

    ��'�� ���������� ���� �������� �� �������� ���� ������ ������ �������������������� �������� ������ ������ ������ �������� �������� ���� ������ ��������������. ���� ���������� ������ ���������� ������������ ���������� ���� �������� �������� ������������������ ���� �������������� ���������� �������������� ����������������. �������� ������, ��������! ���������� ���� ������ ����-�������������������� ���� ������ ������. ������_���� ������ ������������������������ �������� �������� ���������� ������������ ������ ���������� ���� �������� ���� �������� ���������� ������������������������ ���������� ������������������ �������������� ���������� ���������� �������������� ���� ������������ ������������������. �������� ���� ������ ���������������� '��������'? ������ ������ ������ ���� �������� ���������������� ���� ���������� �������������� ��������������? �� ���� ������ ���������� ���������� �� ���������� ������������������������ ���������� ���� �������������� ���������� ������ ������ ������. ������ �� ���������� ������ �������� ���� ������ �������� �������� ������ ������������ ���� ������ ���������� ������ �������������� ���������������� ������ ������. ������ �������� ���������������� �������� ��������..
    #fun
    #temp

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    Sunset is when the sky closes the door because the sun is an alcoholic poet. However every poem he wrote by vomiting gold is about moon.
    ©hiesenberg

  • hiesenberg 3w

    ������ ������������ ������������ ������������������ ���� ������������ �������������� ���������� �������� ������ ������������������ ������ ������ ������������ ���� ���� ������ ���������������� ���������������� ���� ��������������������. The goblet of the invisible moon took water from it and made a strong kattan tea, while the smell of spice and steam from the trunks of the idukki dew mountains rose. Innocuous breeze melts in oleaginous gypsy soul pots of lakkam waterfalls. Green bearded trees are welcoming the butterscotch clouds to hug the never ending odyssey. One can only hear their naked breath talking to the vast palace of the skies. The gentleness of rain brings free kulfi hailstones from cumulonimbus palanquin.

    ��he queen without a crown is echoing from the other side when mattupetty repairing her guitar strings borrowed from the webs of weaving spiders. The drops of water hanging in the leaf blades cwtch the auburn soil to hold the kiss for longer. Feel the harbinger of hope without a blanket in the chilling air venting out through the hill station. The ephimeral sunset is ready to accept your ochre sky of emotional doldrums. The mind should change here like pottery instead of broken glasses. ���� ������ �������� ���� �������� �������� ������������, ���� ���� �������������������� ���� ������ ������ ��������������. Why are we so late to realize that wild vines that spread across the legs are better than ropes around the neck?

    ��he nature should be an indestructible temple. A worship place to experience the sound of birds, animals, leaves, flowers, rivers and the eternal rain. Does these contraction and relaxation of diaphragm being in love with the viridescent intervals of heartbeats before our specks of dust become airborne? ���������� ���� ���� ������ ������������ ���� ������������..������������ ������������ ���� ��������������. ������ ������ �������������� �������������� �������� ������������ ����������?

    #color #wod
    നരഭോജികളുടെ നാട്ടിൽനിന്നകലയായി മലകളിലൊരു കാടുണ്ട്

    അവിടെ പച്ചിലകൾ പൊഴിക്കാൻ എനിക്കൊരു പെണ്ണുണ്ട് മരമുണ്ട്

    പൊന്നാലിലമേലൂഞ്ഞാലാടും വണ്ണാത്തിപൂളുകളേ നീങ്ങളറിഞ്ഞോ?

    മേടക്കാറ്റേറ്റു മയങ്ങാൻ ശംഖ്‌പുഷ്പ്പങ്ങൾ ഇന്നില്ല

    വാടിയ നിലാവുകളിൽ രാത്രികൾ മുല്ലപ്പൂക്കളായി തേങ്ങി

    സർപ്പഗന്ധികളിൽ വെളിച്ചാമൊരു ഹാരമണിഞ്ഞും കടന്നുപോയി

    കറുപ്പോ ഇത് വെളുപ്പോ കണ്മഷി കാക്കകളൊന്നമ്പരന്നു

    പച്ചിലവള്ളികളിൽ പനംതത്തവന്നൊരു കൂടുകൂട്ടി

    മുറ്റത്തെ മാവിന്റെ കഴുത്തറുത്തൊരു വിറകുപുരയൊരുക്കി

    പറന്നകന്നൊരു വേനൽ വേഴാമ്പൽതൻ ഗദ്ഗദങ്ങളിൽ മഴനിനക്കന്യമായോ?

    മൺകുടിലിനുള്ളിൽ ചിതലായി പിറന്നുവെങ്കിൽ ഞാൻ സദാ

    ചിതകളിലെരിയുന്നൊരഗ്നിക്കരികിൽ നീ ചാരമാകില്ല സതീ

    മൃതിയടഞ്ഞ മിഴികളിലെങ്കിലും പ്രളയ പ്രവാഹമായി നീ ഒഴുകിയകലട്ടെ...
    ©����������

    P. S- My name is green, the plucked flower of irreparable loss that sheds yellow and blue petals before the wound begins to heal in the depths of time. Translation in bg.

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    There is a forest in the mountains away from the land of cannibals. There, I have an autumn girl and a tree to drop the greens on. O' the magpie robins swinging on the golden banynan leaves, Did you know? Today, there are no dark violet butterfly flowers to seduce. The nights giggles like olent jasmines in the orbal LEDs. A festoon of light cruise over the serpentine petals. Is this shadow or bones? The crows get startled. A nest of macow fronds in the green periwinkles. A firewood cabin was made, slitting the throat of mango tree. Did the quench lost for you when hornbill rain crooning in woebegone? If I was born as termites in a mud hut, I might be able to help you always. Sati, you will not be reduced to ashes by the fire burning in the piles. Let the dead streams of eyes flow like your perennial rivers.
    ©

  • hiesenberg 3w

    �� �������� ���� ������ ���������� ���� �������� ����������������, ������ ������ ���� ������ �������������� ���������� �� ������ �� �������� �������������� �������������� ���������������� ���������� ������ �������������� ���� ������ ���������������� ����������. I swam near it, took it gently and shook it. I heard a mini sea roaring inside. The husk was wet, so i dried it using the sand blankets of the shores. My ear was brought closer to its turtle mouth again. A low voice caught my attention with a murmur of relief.

    �� confirmed it belonged to a girl. It seemed to me that time might have trapped her inside a very long ago. The screams from the sinking ships from the background are hunting my ears. 'It's coming back' and some people are blowing the trumpet to make weapons ready. Attack the blue army they said, huge bullets from the cannon turn into thunder as they hit its shell. A tiny crevasse. My pinna swells of pain.

    �� wondered who they were so afraid of. I'm not at all sure whether it is raining or storming battles from the inside. Someone called out that something was crawling under the ship, like the sound of elephants cracking skulls. Is it huge tentacles of krakens crumbling the ships like A4 sheets? I heard her voice once again. I asked who she was. She answered in a dulcet tone.

    ��'m the spouse of lord ocean 'The Atlantis'. And i'm carrying. I'm being kidnapped by a gang of human beings. The non-stop movement of day and night makes me uncomfortable. I have no other recourse but the sea to dry my wounds. He tries to save me many times but he is not able to bring me out of this darkness. I'm not afraid of death but I cannot stand and see them hurting his waves. ������ ������ �������� ���� ���������� ���������� ������������?

    �� was shocked for a moment. Then I could not hear anything. Ships and boats are still sailing today. ���������� ������ ���������� ���� �������������� ������ �������� ���� ������ ���� ������ ���������� �������� ���������� ���� ��������������'�� ��������? The sea that fought wars is dying and rising and still roaring on the rocks in remorse. I still wait for her voice as he still flows in the blue skies of the wounds. ���� �������� ������������ ���������� ���� �������� ������ �������� ������ ���������� �������� ����?
    ©����������
    #tanka
    ����-����-��������

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    October in war
    September to syria
    March stole her colors
    Maples in despair branches
    Thy lips afraid of autumn

    Lonely seasons sigh
    Butterflies visiting graves
    Farewells are fading
    My old heart is still thumping
    How could thy spring love someone?
    ©

  • hiesenberg 3w

    ���������� ������ �� �������� ������ �������� �������������� �������� �������������� ���� ������ ���������������� ���������� ���������� ���� ���������� ������������ �������������� �������������� ������ ���� ��������. Nevertheless the battles you survived in the modern chemical labs morph you into charred mecadam of flesh and bones organized to unleash the avatars of arrogant infernal bombs.

    ��here is a hunger game of snake and ladder played by corporate and common between the green and red buttons what you call as heroic outfits of abhorrence but where you want to press depends up on your political motive. You cannot spill the beans until somebody took a knife and cut your throat while your windpipe open up like a pentagonal papaya inscribed in a scandal circle.

    ��od dammit! Did you have the courage to do that on your own? No! You won't, fear makes your adrenaline rush but you are too weak and asymptomatic to take a decision. The act of valour needs a longitudinal anatomy of the metallic clocks eroded in the pierced earlobes of ones own court where the rubber boots broke the nibs and raises slogans imprinted in barbaric blood.

    ��id you know, even the day started to hate your kind when you and your underaged friends ripped the moon from the waist of the mountains moving on a double decker blue bus and left the body in a black polythene night? You can make a map of each state by taking the rotting intestines out from the mortuaries of stars when the stories of weeping motherhood begging for mercy killing of their daughters infront of angelic gods wearing the white himalayan snow coats.

    ��he hands that filled the gaps of the fingers to stop oozing invidious partiality from history books still remain as scars on the beige bark of skin monuments of the living dead now. You combust some fuel from your dads side pocket at sixteenth summer and chilled your engines with a shot of whiskey and criticize the heart of others pulling them out from your joker smile and then proclaimed 'Why so serious'.

    ��he seismic rumbling of your altruism coated in mental illness has no temples, no mosque, no cathredal, no mahal, no synagogue, no monasteries and not even generosity, albeit you are defined as an animal confined of caste, creed and colour. The scorching sun burns until the piles of the day turn to ashes, and let you be held accountable for the letters of deceit you have left behind in the wages of sins.

    ��he night may have become obscene and wild for you when the liquid poison in the needle you injected into the left wrist from the corner of a right angle room began to drive you crazy.The moonlight remains with cigarette scars in the sky to shine on the petals you blackened on your youth, but you too must decay with the wind that blows unreliably until the underground skeletons drench in forsaken rain.

    ��n the arsenal of hell are kept three weapons: repentance, conscience, and righteousness. There, the dagger of conscience moulded by fire waiting to pierce your chest. You should not die without a handful of pain. May the protector of the horizon take back the sweetness of breast milk that is not worthy for your tongue.

    ��he death knell rang and the executioner walked with you near the gallows. A garland in my neck, you are hanging in a rope. Clock smiled and come back alive. In my soul's eye pile you have already been killed innumerable times in miniscule pieces and thrown to the hungry piranhas. I believe they could consume your flesh. However, i need to make sure that you are not breathing again.

    Should i cut through the ribs to check the heartbeat of your comorbidity or inflate a baloon in the lungs and prick it with a needle in your helium identity? �������� ������������ �������� ������ ������ �������������� ���� ������ �������� ������������. ������ ������������ ���������� �������� ������ ������ ������ ������������������ �������������� ���� ������ �������������������� ������, ������ ������ ���������� ������������ ���� ���� ���������� ���������� �������� ���������������� �� �������������� ��������.
    ©����������
    ����-����-��������(Happy heart day ♡)
    #contest_j #haiku #writersnetwork
    @love_whispererr @kin_jo (�� �������� ������������ ���� �������� �������������� ���������� ��)

    P. S- Nothing has changed when day turn off. Neon lights are always abused in the semi darkness. But death is the greatest ruler of truth.

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    Dracarys fossette
    Touch me, get ablaze in pain
    Waxes of so(u)l whine
    ©

    Those umbras aside
    The morning sun arises
    when death sentence melts

    struggles of candles
    Rest near the hanging nooses
    unclouded sky smiles

    Hope of orchids blooms
    When the leg irons remove
    And peace may arrive
    ©_

    Watching sinners slay
    My soul lastly perceives death
    A new dawn rises
    ©_

  • hiesenberg 3w

    നിറമണഞ്ഞ ചഷകങ്ങളിലെരിഞ്ഞ കരിന്തിരി വിളക്കുകകളിലൊരുതുള്ളിഭാഷ്പ്പ
    മെരിച്ചോരിളംതെന്നൽ മയങ്ങി

    ഇടറുമീകുളിരോർമ്മതൻമുറിവിലേക്ക് ഇത്തിരി കനൽകാഞ്ഞുമടുത്തോരീ നിശീഥിനിയും ഞാനും

    അരുണതീർഥക്കുളത്തിൽനിന്നൊരലല്ലിയാമ്പൽ തണ്ടിറുത്തുനടന്നനാൾ മഴവിൽകുടകൾക്കുമീതെ നിൻ വെളിച്ചം പരന്നതും

    ദിവ്യമാമനുരാഗവനസൗരഭങ്ങളിൽ ആലിപ്പഴത്തിന്നിതളുകൾ പൊഴിച്ചു നീ അകന്നതും

    മുക്കൂറ്റിമേഘങ്ങൾ രണ്ടിടനാഴികനേരമെൻ ചെമ്പകസന്ധ്യകളായി മഴ പെയ്തു തോർന്നനാൾ

    കൃഷ്ണതുളസിക്കരികിൽനിന്നന്നുനാം പൊൻപരൽമത്സ്യങ്ങളായി പിച്ച നടന്നതോ

    മുങ്ങാങ്കുഴിയിട്ടു കഴഞ്ഞോരാകാൽപ്പാദങ്ങളിൽ വറ്റി വരണ്ടൊരാ ബാല്യങ്ങൾ മാഞ്ഞുവോ?

    തുമ്പയും തൂമ്പയും കൊണ്ടൊരീ ചെമ്മണിനെ മാറോടു ചേർക്കാനും മധുരമൂറും മുലപ്പാൽ നുകരുവാനും

    വാടിത്തളരുമ്പോൾ വീണ്ടുമൊരുതുലാമഴയിൽ വിയർപ്പിനൊപ്പം
    മണ്ണിലേക്കലിയാനും ഒരു മഹാഗണിക്കാലം കടംതരുമോ?
    #temp
    #enso
    ����-����-��������

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    Low pressure. Aeroplane mode, Archimedes in sinking paper boats. Arabian sea sleeps with an earphone. Refraction ripples as headaches from the sun. Moon pills, Humpback whales singing the chorus of the rainbows on loop. This viole(n)t day can't be tamed. Paused for a second. Thunder gather the courage in the broken mirror shards from the toes. Gelatin jellies are imperfect stingers with words. The waves are cicatrix to the sand tents on the heart. A wild cloud is a fox with a thorn in its throat. The sympathy of the heron makes the monsoon red. Farewell to the wrecked amber nights for an imperfect welkin.
    ©

  • hiesenberg 4w

    �������� ���� �� ���������������� �������������� �������� ������������ ���� ������������������. �������� �������� ������������ �������������������� ���� ���� ����������, watch me burn in the stillness of my rebellious waters. Artificial rain is never an asylum for me, but don't hurt her who leans on my sunburned shoulders.The levitating dandelions need a miraculous escape from the wildfire sirens rambling in my amazonian rainforest.


    ��he doubtful screams of cricket can't penetrate through the brazilian bukowski moon when my effulgence soul sleeps in carbon pillows. As the emerald green leaves fall one by one from my autumn canopies, let your molecules of breathe carrying me emanate atleast once from the tinted alchemy of love ascension. May the seeds of this sunflower pain attain the virtue of rebirth when it joins the folds of the dead soil.


    �� �������� ���� ���������� ���� �������� �������������� ������ �������������� ������������ ���� ����������������, but may the cold streams i have bestowed on your heart be a comfort to your suffocating summer drought. There will always be a demure phoenix to watch the flames in my woods at the heart gate of the sun dressed in red khadi as i close my eyelids for the silent kisses on your tangent lips.


    ��he ivory trade of timber and axe in the cradle of my lullaby isles make me blind everytime when i see stomata gasps for oxygen. My memories, drawn by the rainbow, fly like hunted peacock feathers when there are no stars to shade the dug-out reminiscence of your lotus bosom. As I begin to vaporize like smoke and condense like rainless nimbostratus clouds, you can see me in the mirror above the hydrophobic wrinkles of singular colocasia leaves.


    ��he stinking smell after the death of rafflecian nights hung up the day on the sharp cactus thorn calendar when the duets of dew dribble past the melancholy. But i remember the two of us secretly meeting in the underground chambers and falling in love instantly before the end of our voyage to the ferocious sea. When the light try to hide your angelic nose pin, I also saw your tributaries glistening on the face of sumptuous serendipity. Could I borrow a hibiscus kiss that could make me awake like an electric eel shock?


    ��oday I remember how fortunate those who were not born to us in your womb when our babies were killed one after the other infront of our eyes. These waste heaps cause a severe pain inside my liver. Bile comes out to surface from the deep rocks to test the purity of my water, each time blue failing the yellow. You are the one who gets polluted when they offer the dishes of poison to my soul. I'll probably miss your existence flowing through the branchlets of my arteries.. Don't cry.


    ��e are rivers of westerlies and fire. One blows while the other burns. The giant sun that covers the shores is a torched childhood of summer. The unfortunate one who could not call winter back when he saw her paddling through his drought. ���������� ���� �������� ������������ ������ ������������ ���� ���������� �������� ���������� �������������� ����������? ��'���� ���������� ���������� �������������� ���� ��������. ������ ������'�� �������� ���� ������������.

    #personification #wod #haiku #writersnetwork
    (�������������������� ���� �������������� �������� ��)

    Remembering the legendary singer SPB��
    ����-����-��������

    P. S- Kabini is a river and Nagarhole is a wildlife national park.

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    Kabini flows wide
    Nagarhole jiggles with joy
    Summer in tea pots

    Gasoline warfare
    Amazon in ochre flames
    Green lungs into dust
    ©

  • hiesenberg 4w

    ������ ������������ ������������ �������������������� ������ ����������������'�� ������ ���� ���������������� ���� ������������. ������ ���������� ���������������� �������� ������ �� ������. The crimson red flowers were the first to drop the word 'equality' from iniquity. Now the concrete poems can't write on love anymore. A hole appeared in the closed door. Fixed in mind as if hidden shadows were lurking outside.. Do not open.. Do not open. Only a diya on the other side as a lifesaver. So leaving the orphaned darkness adopted from the inner conflicts here for another migration.

    ��hen the half baked sun was trying to kiss the sea, the clouds covered the day with a pitch black curtain meanwhile one of them sacrificed in the depth for the other, and the voyage in their lifetime together may have written in the pages of blue breeze locked in ten thousand feet of polarized water where no evil eyes can sermon their privacy. As the tidal wave despoil the sand dunes beneath the foothills, the gurgling of the river that had been swept away and brutally killed could be heard. Dear daughters of the sky, never trust anyone. ������������������ �������� ���� ���������� ������������ ������ �������� �� ������������. ���������� ���� �� �������������� �������� ���������������������� ������������ ��������������.

    ��s the extent of the embrace between the two hands too far away from the sight of the city holding bottles full of stars and selling them cheaply on forbidden nights? It is easy to cry without telling others, perhaps because of the same taste shared by the sea and the tears. But remember this, it is the sinking pebbles that are always assigned to measure the depth of an unfathomable ocean.The waves often remind us musically that they are the ones who forgot to laugh the most on the throne of grief.

    ���� �������� ���������� ���� ��������, �������� ���� ���� ������������ �������������������� ������ ����������-����-������. Those who began to lower their chin when the light runs out intrinsically serving despondency on the tabletop everyday whereas the other with a silhouette of life that amend only to curl up in a corner of the dark room with an unwanted touch from a stranger.Tied mouths speaks silence louder than heartbreaks. Isn't it? The memories of those who sought refuge in the abandoned lines seem to be aging as the untouched molluscs and empty shells approach the shores for a relief.

    ��he ocean is always there to witness and receive the storms, rain and sunshine on the forehead of the day that reaches from beyond the clouds carrying the lost fragrances of the soul. Many of us are byproducts of shadow and light. An old song resonates in the head which say 'when you laugh, a thousand people will gather up to laugh with you, and when you cry, only your shadow will be your side to cry with you'. Is the death of light a tragedy for the shadow or a rhyme? ������ ���� �������������� �������� ������ ���������� �������������� ���� ������ ���������������� ���������� �������� �������� ������ ������ ���������������� ���������������� ���� ������ ���������� �������� ���� ���� ������ ���������������� ������ ���� �� ���������������� ������.

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    Proximity increase the chance of finding each other from two different soul poems when they are coincidental. However the harmonic tides are anxious about the occurrence of subtle changes that no one else but light can colour in an open ocean. When realize that the shores will not look back to soothe the rusted melodies that has transformed itself from the trust of the setting sun who ows to the boundless salt paradise. Is the death of light a tragedy for the shadow or a rhyme? Do not open the door until you confirm..
    ©hiesenberg

  • hiesenberg 5w

    �������� ������ ���������� ������������ ���������� �������� ��������, �� ���������� �������� ������������ ���� ������ ������. ������ ���������� ������������ �������� ���������� �������� ������ �������������� ���������� ������ �������������� ����������. ������ ������������������������ ������������ ���� �������� �������� ����������, �������� ������������������ ���������� �������������� ���� ������ �������������� ��������������.������ �������������� �������������� ���������������� ������ ���������������� ���������� �������� ���� �������������� ���� ������ ������������������ �������������������� ���� ������ �������������� ����������. ������ ���������������� ����������, ������������ ������������ �������� ������ ���������������� �������� ������������������ ������ ������ ���� ���� �������� ���� ���������� ���������� ���� ������ ������������������ ������

    �� monster of fear that emerged in daylight crashing down the himalayan ranges when the tight tectonic plates got stuck in the vision of infinitesimal shadows. The light of goodness that was worshiped in places inhabited by wind and rain is today the black spots on the dry pillar lamps. ������ ���� ������ �������������� ������ �������� ������������ ������������ �������� ���������������� ��������������, �������������� ������������ ������ ������������ ������������-�������������� �������������� �������� ���������� ���� �������������� ������ �������� ���������� �������������� ���� ������ ������������������ ���� ������������? ��������������.

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    You are in a rebellion with your cacophonous screams, which cannot be won with a naive laughter of madness ignited in ardent flames. So you turn a page and burn some lines to stay yourself alive. Now you are an echo ringing inside your bones underneath the virtue of versailles vanity when your body is living like a fortress under siege. The rumbling lyrics of life you dreamt of praise the perpetual scars but there is a treacherous summer clutching on the colder lips of your poetries. Whilst the spirit of winter crushed underfoot will never forgive you.
    ©

  • hiesenberg 5w

    ���� ���������� �� ���������� ������������ ���� ���������� ���������� ���������� �������� ������ �������� ������������ ������ ������ ���������������� ���������� ������ ������ �������������� ������ �������������� ���� ������ ������������������ �������� �������� ���� ������ �������� ������������ ��������������? As each day bid an adieu to the night by transplanting those flowers from the donor sky into your isolated liver, You see the wind burning the unpainted butterflies on the wall paintings of your heart.

    ��ou are an observer driving towards the end of an oblivious universe on an alternative timeline but always want to jump off the cliffs of your subjective imagination. There is no guarantee that time wouldn't kill your subconscious mind and vulnerable matter on the return trip after passing through an event horizon.

    ��nyway you love time and want to get married with her, however the irony is she is the eldest daughter of a physics genius. So you tried to warp time to attain immortality, but Einstein kick your buttocks and time bends your spine. But your very tapestry of life is dedicated to her who unfolds love in every lines of a faint poem smiling with a dimple on her lively blue cheecks.

    ��erhaps when age tuned in the frequency of your spiral genes blinking in and out of your existence.The eerie melodies pitch up again to live fast and die soon. It may take a lifetime to acclimate the value of the best gift that time could ever give you, maybe it's not happiness but multitude of wrinkles and lightning scars.The chemical flood liberated in your head asked for a radical change.

    ��our thoughts moving exponentially towards a fast moving train.The light of quick silver sun burned your monochrome verses and you see eternity slowly slips away through your exposed skin. The velocity keeps on running towards you to stop your inner you sending neurological impulse towards your brain that could lead to abort the mission.

    ��here is not even a trace of fear in your eyes as you look at the smoldering bullets.The cold ferrago of gravitational tug in your stomach already robbed your last breathe away. But you hold it somehow and dissolved it in a psychological 3D world of madness. Now you're an inevitable holocaust dissolved in thin air as your pen taste the blood stains on the cryptic words.

    ��ities must bury in the dark pages of black holes, yet you want to decipher who else care when your words die for a day and how the thoughts survive when an accelerated rhyming isotope tearing apart the fabric of your universe. The sombre music continues in the background as the day welcomes the past to attend your funeral.

    ��nd there she whisk away sporadically with a protagonist and her presence smell like raspberries in your receptors which crushes your skull and rips your heart apart again and again in the enormous weight of the stuffed lies of atmosphere. Your soul begged for gravity to cease you from the pain nagging inside your head while time runs slower with a a garland weaved in the cosmic strings for your reference frame.

    ��hat is the need to suffocate when you are dead with flowers that they do not bring while you are alive? You see clouds burst from those eyes who smile from inside, nevertheless the 'puerile you' want to sail a paper boat in their synthetic sea just to estimate the density of your sweat silver pearls and calculate how much time will it take to sink your mass of entity to hit the rock bottom.

    ��e was supposed to live a long life but your dual you hear two people rodomontade that it happened so fast when fate nonchalantly snatched everything away. Albeit you need not be worried about the complexities of human relationship when you got a huge number of toxic fans to bloviate your demise. ������ �������������������� �������� �������� �������� ������ �������� ���������� ������������������ �������� �������� ������ ������������ �������� ������ ���������� ���� ������ ���������� �������� ����������.

    ��o many of the deadly auditory passages in fact leave the body behind as they pass through the light, leaving the colors of the unchanging silence in the empty vortices? The light clinging to the window sills is also confusing, ready to touch the dull sea blueprints to tie the soil to the chest in the bindings and the bitter vines twisted in dry lines.

    ��he electric signals defying death beeps in your diminutive head carrying 86 billion nerve cells and wake you up from the deep depth of coma when your soul get submerged in the nebulous infinity pools.Your eyes flicker back and forth like memories without a proper title, and for a moment you felt like you have lost yourself like omnipotent bubbles . ���� ������ �� �������������� �������� ������������������������! ������ �������� ���������������� ����������. �������������� �������� ���� �������� �������� ����������.

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    Would you give me a sixty minutes to hide among the tippet of your impenetrable clouds? Let my cuddle talk like loop in your solitude. Torch me up faster than light could follow the heart of the shadow compressing the space time. Gift me a soul which cannot be sacrificed for fire. Make me a firefly to traverse to the stars before my bones transmute to dusty ashes for the ganges. Paint my pain to abate and drive me to dissolve in your infinity.
    ©