Little thoughts with frail sails sailing in my mind's ocean
I held one of them in my shrivelled, yet strong fingers
And bringing them close to my face, to have a closer look, I sniffed it
A soggy, pungent smell
A pale-ash-blue discoloured colour
Maybe the shadowy sun-rays
And the overpowering moonlight
Or the shrieking silence of words
And the quietitude of the heart's ceaseless drum-beats
Or the dimmed flame of life
And the perpetuality of the soul
It is weak now
Old. Grotesque.
The last strength...to die.
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