The clips of rim have begun, and receded the mount of sand,
the sea shore is sullen, with a low full of rant.
The pages are timid and firm, the hands are lean and weak,
the tree is withering, in a moment of glee.
Our days have come to make us say,
our days have come to repent our way.
The setting sun is delayed, and the moon not sharp,
at the mid of crowd, with positions wrought,
with low lean mind and a dirt of tar,
words are curd, with no intention of the meaning,
the words are perplexed, like a mind full of giving.
The brim is set to the sky, the mind is loaded with time,
the clips keep on blinking, and sinking.
Lips mumbling, about nimble thoughts.
Glimpses keep moving, and set as a tide.
There were some purpose, some choices of no sought.
Here leaves the box full of pots.
Where the mud bound,
the sap mound,
the bloom found,
the mourners hound.
Glimpse recovers again, and stays lain.
If so is the best out of the way, this is leftover to say.
The thunder of trinity, allover was heard.
Well ones, are stumped and bade well wishes,
yells again the sky with rain.
Clamours out the favour with no reason, and choice.
Leaves a band, full of rim of colours, and sinks with the sun.
Eventually, the light leaves off from the star of the night, and darkness effected to none.