A knife, swipes the beginning of life, 
	A hand, grabs an invisible band,
		Towards the where?
			Where?
				The uncommon kind,
					Is in your mind.
				The painter of mankind,
			You think you are,
		Does not believe in time.
	And it is blind,
Even when the sun shines.

From every detail to every minutia,
Joy and pain fill up the missing piece.

Immersing into the prolonged amnesia,
Zoning out with our inner peace.

One asked,
         "What is memory?"
It is a purple reverie,
                     a pleasant trickery,
                   and                 a path to self-discovery.

Afternoon, away.
In the afternoon, get away.
Sit in the afternoon, try to get away.
Situation in the afternoon,
    terrifying to get away.
Control the situation in the afternoon,
    terrifyingly easy to get away.
Unable to control the situation in the afternoon,
    it is terrifying to get away easily.
What makes it unable to control the situation in the afternoon?
    Isn't it terrifying that no one gets to die easily anyway?

In the afternoon I walked through the fog,
	It is silent,
	Except the sound of clogs.
		I looked past the fog,
			and saw a man hiking with a dog.
I quickly walked by the logs,
	tracing the man with the dog.
		But there was nothing,
			Not even a hog.
The wind of forest, makes man slog,
	What am I to do...wait for the dog, or wait in the fog?

Last night I walked into a cube,
	as a result of an over-due.
		I tried to talk without the guilt,
		but ended up toning the mute.
		There are six views in the cube,
		left me impossible to choose,
		for only two are facing each other,
		allowing for nothing new.
	I stepped back to look for some cues,
	preparing to combat any ridicule,
but the cube, with its six sides, have my foot sealed.

			Fumes.
			Rooms Filled.
			Bodies Entrenched.
			Minds Occupied.
	
			Movement.
			Actionable.
			Hitting the wall.
	
			No Light.
			But Fumes.

Dancing through the rhythm.
		One
		Life, it begins with art.
			Two
			Love, it begins with life.
		One
		Death, it ends with art.
			Two
			Solitude, it ends with death.
	To keep it going -
Keep Dancing.

The after-party is on sale by an old man,
	No living bodies allowed,
		As noted on the ticket.
		   But do bring a guest,
		     If they are still around after the party,
		      If they are willing to be gnarly,
		     If they are good at spooky.
		   Only one ticket per soul,
		Gold pass for the damned,
	Silver for the sinned,
Let the party roll, for the lived!

The storm is coming,
	from the east,
		those going home are scrambling.
	from the south,
		those waking up are jittering.
	from the west,
		those setting out are scuffling.
	from the north,
		those walking by are trembling.
But of those scrambling, jittering, scuffling and trembling,
    each is dancing, singing, and embracing the storm of life.

A grin on the wall,
	Makes the door small,
	Through a bride,
		Who takes her pride,
			When he drives,
				With a pearl knife.
A grin like that small,
	Peeks through the wall,
		The bride is out for a ride,
			Far down the countryside,
Where he is not, ready to be lied.