A frozen clock, melting, by the passing second. Time.
Life is like a cold volcano, stopping abruptly.
Time, once took over the volcanoes, and created histories.
A history called humans.
Time, a smudge of fresh paint, on the bland wall. And, it later scrubs off by the wind of limitation.
It is a museum, one that floats somewhere in the infinite void, of thoughts and rotten,red wounds.
(the very wounds that opens up, when time stops.)
It's a museum of dolls.
A bewitched doll, with bloody eyes and blue limbs. One on squeaking, bleeds, and when laid to rest it, smiles. And, then when the doll is stabbed, blood on the clock. the hands stopped moving, second remained Time, continues.
Time, is a lover's paradise hung upon eternity, singing the song of lonely, attics, and narrating tales of empty, letters.
It is also like a, nuclear weapon. (over which you have more wars than with it)
Time can make you feel like a, empty beer can; thrown on a white dull beach, lined by freshly chopped grey trees; which swayed to the blue sun and the distant ship, by the monotonous waves.
Life now becomes the grey.
with time the ancient warriors got buried in the mud, and their arms, got polished for the next crusade.
with time red roses turn white, and honey bees throng to the cactus.
as time flows, the river of melancholy dries up, revealing the dry truth.
The darkest of it's kind, creates a magic spell on each leaf, that flutters in the silent wind.
The moon shines, with an unusual glory. It's a glory of mistrust between the two worlds. One that seeks to live and love. The other that fights to seek an existence.
The calmness of the night, was stolen by the dark envy. An envy that robs the, trees of it's right to live. And the right to greenness.
Small pieces of the night, stitch together and weave magic to a pungent perfume.
Floating limbs of evil forces, grasp the melancholy of the earth, to liven the damn spirits of Golgotha.
Nott remains unsuccessful, in her attempts to bring her night back. The Wiesel guy, penned it down what it was like.
It was a night of happier things too.
The rickshaw-puller smoke his lustful pot, and for once he relaxed, to the tunes of the Baul that hummed in the record player, left by some guest the other day.
It is also when people, discover each other.
The trees communicate in silence. And talk of welcoming the rains, and bearing the pains.
The night shelters itself in a vast expanse, pretending to be some kind of a treacherous beast, that makes prophecies or wars and crimes.
Night is when the people rest, and the dreams work to make him, alive next morning. Night is when man is what he becomes the next morning.
The sun paints the canvas, and plays with the colours a little later. It weeps and departs and promises, a revengeful return. (Nott is the Norse Goddess of Night, Elles Wiesel is an author who wrote a book named "Night",talking about the Nazi treachery)