There is an auburn flair language, which is not common among the lands; playful to the ears as an atypical moan that puts one in a choke hold.
It always runs its route, never stopping; ceaselessly it seems down the ways fly through stale air.

Just doing so, giving plays that just keep going; there could never be just one need.
To those who don’t understand, its fine; there was never a full reason.
Lay in peace, a momentary instant it will be; but hold it!
Even if daring to blink and giving up, it will be crushed; dust blowing the wind as a goodbye.

Leaving that feel of a passing passion; comes to that as a need, yet far from it when it truth it is only a feeble want of misery.

 

 

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