Nowhere could be a place to always go,
To be with the sweet reflections
Of all we call gold
And of the love of memory
That can only bewilder.
The inner chambers of thought
Are the final resting place
For those that bore her children,
That come neither black nor white
Nor with many wishes to cry;
But to blow the songs of truth
That accompany the dark stars
To where time stops
And space makes do
With what the Creator could hold.
The journey to the inner world
Is the same to the outer world.
This is what the mystic knows
Before the traveller sets sail
To never return nor make the pace
Just like the calm mystic has always known.
Author’s Note: They say politics is a dirty game. Politicians are divided into those that see it as a deterrent or as an excuse.
I think the battle of the sexes would probably be the last war.
The world is hypocritical about world peace.
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What we fight for and what fights against us are usually two sides of the same coin that makes us better persons.
They say fight for love, but that counts for nothing compared to how love fights for us.
The universe is vast in space and condensed in thought. So think ever slightly of it and unravel the world.
Until next time,
I will be here.
– M. V. Echa