Too high that a bird soars in the night sky,
That savagely it bleeds as it
falls back down,
As it but a butterfly flying out
of a cocoon,
With a heart
disorientate of Hagia Sophia...
The prophecy of my mind
is nigh,
When the dis- is greater
than the like,
Yet it is unwise to cease
its existence,
As even the wisest are
unable to see...
To hope too much is but
a dream,
And too deep of a dream
it is deeper,
Longing it to be a part
of this very world,
When it would be safer
down under...
I too have a fable of my
own,
That the key to the
chest was mine all alone,
A gamble it was of life
and death,
Of a pirate map sixteen
years it hath...
~Afdhal~
~Afdhal~
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