(Y)

As morning arrives,
death so suddenly strikes.
Impulses, of past lives,
creep upon my windowsill
and flow into my mind.
Like chains of smoke have pulverized,
my thinking pattern for already too long a time.
Like salutations of friends in disguise
have kept me wondering,
bathing in eternal sunrise.
And that a dream could come
Making me a slave of time that’s not mine.
That these words would flow, in lines,
revolving around a wild, unschematic rhyme.

Y clings to lYfe, as he, yourself and Y.

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