The old chimney
the rusty black smoke,
somewhere inside the heart of a grey wood…
Here the fall of the leaves are soundless…
the words and the steps are delusional
and from the marrow of this entropy occurs a question…
A question on the face of a transitional, cocooned landscape.
After surmounting all the invasions of mockery
Don’t we all dream to be a little ahead of time…
The night cries with waiting for ages,
Something…some little things must be tuned in an enigma
an orchestra of heterogeneity
a haze of coldness and a obscure familiarity.
But we have always been indifferent to the process of becoming,
an eternal transformation of reach…
The evening of memories and with night the drive never stops by.
A starring in time…no matter how we walk, how we sleep, how we behave to be concurrent,
the wilderness between the breathes reminds us to be able to let go
of everything,
every drowning sensation of barrenness.

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Photograph: dxvilsbae.