The Unlikely Thing

Words and music, emotion nearly tangible. Strumming rhythms numbly.

Something's incessant- a lack of presence. 

It has been said that every entity contains in itself

the means to its own ends. 

Thus is the nature of change.

But in times of sorrow, that implies reason for hope! Especially if there's a noticeable difference between then and now. For I was confounded, afraid of the ironies life may bring or subject its self to. 

Insanely seeking satiation, 'cause complecency just won't sing.

When I write every night, putting faith into a feeling, with empty space I'm dealing, pondering and promising that the words will resonate. Substance substantiates! And Fear and Apathy love me madly; such abstractions fill the gaps where tension once had me. 

At some certain intervals, I truly feel blessed. What is time: a location, a straight line and a ring. I profess my intent for unlikely thing. It's fortune, happiness, a whatchamacallit. I'll love it for as long as my imagination sustains.