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 day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist! Faded the flower and all its budded charms, Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise – Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday – or holinight Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight, But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day, He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.