That's beauty for me, my ability to delve into the minute details.
The constant banging the edge of an axe on the old walls nearby matching the pace of my heavy heart.
The scorching summer sun making me feel the discomfort of eternity.
And I still find a way to form poetry out of these.
That the slurping fountain head, which I would detest on a regular day, forms the foundation of my ubiquitous existence.
That my limpid self no longer has the urge to push the dulciloquy through my voice
And that my demure potrayal is on the verge of losing its essence.
That nothing is more risible than the fantasies which are a far cry.
That it is an absolute bliss to see the world disproving the pejorative clichés and ties with normal.
how it is a blessing to look beyond the façade of the ordinary and see the naive wondering.