THE LITTLE MAN!
Stamps outdate by the same old folktales that echo morality in the face of dawn. The crowded memories bedridden to sweet melodies banging in barren islands of smoldering tales twisting to the sound of morning, fangs of desparation slowly creeping towards a dear old pal. Application of reality is a song rhymed in a mind that clatters through windows phantoming towards temporaly misplaced opinions. The journey to tommorow is written on a daily basis as the favourate echoing of the memories that dawn time. In the jungle the laws differ, a veil is cast between self with the defination of self mostly aligning with first impressions as a clown reading a book without the cover. In the desert running like dunes thoughts fumble steps in the the blown whirlwind of time, slowly yet fading reality becomes the manifestation of ink cramped in plastic sweating arousal from paper blank with imaginations to fill. Stories are best intepreted with understanding which comes after knowledge, the hunger to purify personal opinion is blastest by furnaces of gold pumped in horizons of handwritings. Stampedinging towards reality, crowded memories bedridden in lices smouldering firey breath flowing in barren islands of time twisting to the dancing of morning. Tall stout built like a forest crusted in the scorching flames of horse hissing in a voice fading away
Beauty stroked in clouds, sparkling sunrays streaming in the fifty shades of grey. Stumbling across a hurricane storm of fresh air, the daily stranger to air vents clapping and clumping reality in fallacies. Rock bottom swimming in the tales of a dirty old man attempting to fly across an idle mind, like a milky mellow idleness is medication which prescribes relaxation, yet war has its own implications as it selects who to leave behind. Life is the never ending circumference only recycling its users. Motivation a morning alarm strung across nightmare scraps in tornado rushing barricaded by skin glows as the moon in stars. A. B whispers that an apology is a foundation for future offence, its more like packing packages of pain, stock piling for future depression more like knitting stiches of thy own nightmare. Rising suns is the new ink gifted to humanity to dip themselves in to the shades of time coloring the sky in to a mountain down the valley of shooting stars. At the doorstep footst...
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