I only wrote prose before I met you. My musings were superfluous and serious as well. But now the words dance with me. I sing with them and we create poetry.
Sometimes, whether a man lived or died was down to luck. He did not know if that realization made him value his own life more or less. If death could come because you chose the wrong door leading out into the sun, perhaps there was no sense to any of it - just the fifth horseman. He shrugged, putting such thoughts aside.
It is a passing strange, George said. In the summer, I complained about the heat. I remember it was unbearable, but the memory no longer seems truly real. With the white ground and frost in the air, I convince myself I would give anything to sweat once more - and if I did, I do not doubt I would yearn to return to this cold. Man is a fickle creature, Richard.
How ironic? Your character, your moments, your happiness, your sorrows; your story will be revealed to you by nothing but Time that too in the end.
The clock of time is a wild child, one that can neither be controlled nor disciplined, it simply slips away from your hand while you grapple trying to hold it back.
Sentences confined to limited definitions meanings restricted to limited words knotted in experiences and sensations musings, smiles and the eyes; and holding the entire love of Creation in my heart how may I offer you one?