The clock on the lost wall

Right there,
on the wall of lost time,
sitting is a clock.
Looking through the eyes of time,
everything and everywhere.

There isn’t solace,
but a sadness that keeps getting deeper with time.
If you know and look into it,
you will find it hard to understand.

The petrichor,
the dusky smell of wooden trench,
used long back to make its body.
The rare collection of colors put into it.

Wind in its own acoustic comes to make him feel the lost time,
like a golden memory which cherishes us to laugh and cry at the same time.
It does seem like how the bread of memory pilled with lost time taste.
Maybe there is no other beauty glow like the time.
It keeps the beauty of dusk and dawn,
the sun and moon, the dark and the day, the world and I.

The drops of fog

Writing on leaves,
the drops of fog
some sublime poetries,
of life & lies,
burning and dying,
true love in the eyes.

Escaping from the arms of clouds,
falling to the surface of grounds,
it cools the heat all around.

Scattered onto the soil,
it asks for an another life.
a life of time, for a lifetime,
nothing it says, but denies.