It’s being long, I’ve clung to my fear; the fear that arouses out of being thinking overhead.
It’s being tiring; I’ve to fight with my myself to let holding or was it cling, go away.
The morning sun trying to shine on the foggy path–I have taken this path many times,
Many seasons through; once, there had been s’one there holding my hand,–
Making a monsoon noon a cling to memoir one…
It’s being long; I’m in this state of accepting them, the memoirs, and rejecting self.
It’s being tiring; I’ve been running for some time (though) now from the cling of…
I don’t know what can come next to “of”; it can be memories, it can be vows,–
It can be anything that’s might be holding you back also; Cling, it’s really haunting–
When you delve into something blue, something you’ve fathomed–just have to (though).
It’s, this morning, is young; the winter long night is still not long gone–
But the sleep that I’m deprived of, cling to my eyes mocking me for leaving the life–
I had promised to cling on–a life of own, a life of solace and gay.
It’s being long, I’ve clung to my fear; the fear to start afresh taking the interim an outing.