Browsing through

every page of memoir left. Bumping into the the first poem shared. Upon reading the poem made me realize how you never really meant every word. Not even just one letter. And yet I read on. Touching the wind that passed by, to feel the rush of past blowing through, shivered my spine. Tippy toes dipping into the cold water, creating a whole new feel. The risk poetry took during the past, caused the death of the present. The anorexic feel of not wanting to swallow or bite the cake baked with ingredients so old. The barfing sound of first sips, first bite, first swallow and first poem made widened the gate to perfect view. Whispers from random things left the little black string of thoughts spin into tinggles and tanggles. Causing my hair to take a few turns to the wrong direction giving the brain a whole new map. Lost with the new sensation, reaching out to the string so cold and unfamiliar. The stranger who held out a hand and taken by innocence. That gave life to the fairy. The mistery of which puzzles the familiar on why cherries stand ontop of the sundae. And yet the wounds of the past never healed, bandages of tomorrow never felt how much hatred pain left of.

Study the past to understand the present.

Past, was left hanging on a cold November day. Hanging on a cliff just clinging to seconds left with life. More than the breeze of yesterday whispered to his ear and the chill of tomorrow touched upon his cheek. the calm sensation, feeling of tomorrow took his life away. The story was never meant to whispered and so death was to come. the ear of having to surivive without explanation was alive and yet some one, something died. The past killed the present. This is what she is now. Sorrow dangling onto the end of her dress, jinggling after every step of hope and faith. Every step pierced through her feet as the redball leaked. Every step spelled out his name. The murder. And yet she continued. Everyone saw everything and yet they kept quiet. Trees whispered to one another of what eyes could never lie about. They saw it coming and yet the never spoke of it. The death of present was never told yet the smirks of the past echoed through the gate of the perfect view. Which brings out fear to the death of present. Redball brought them back. I told you, redball is murder.