The Hibiscus tree enrooted from time perennial at the front lawn of my cottage is ladened with years of visions and memories. Grandmother’s weary hands (that wore an apparel of benevolence) had a toned contrast which laid upon its luminous petals, gently plucked and bathed to be served at the Lord’s feet. Hills and valleys, carefully touching the Viola horizon have walls of abandoned homes carrying the laugthers and twinks of our childhood. The scent of bourbon is still apparent as I drive past the fields with rusty models of broken idols. The roads carry a homely perfume which is oblivious to my conscience. Stepping on them feels like a transposition to a sequence of happier dignities, an epigram inscribed within the heart of immortality. I ponder if delirium is bliss. These vast sceneries of potent adequacy of joy have bore me fruits, the fruits of longing. I stroll through the dents of this inwardly sunken city to find your clad. Icy oceans and stringent drops of sullen clouds are all that I am greeted with. Within these windswept moments of time, I chariot incessantly on its circumference of infernal abode. Stories that still hover in my celestial orb settle for one last time to your behemothic absence. I ruminate tenderly on this platonic requiem for your sediments. Afterall, these moments are long forsaken by the Gods and your soul have ceased dwelling in the fissures of this city’s walls. It is a fixation in monotony, a harp with its diseased reeds, an ocean with dead polyp, lost to the unbenign cervical of your deceased touch that I still call mine– inumbrated by a dimmed aurora

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