I have always wanted to be a Ghostwriter. 

Sitting under a tree, listen as stories grow. 

Love passes as hatred sneaks through shrouded. 

I shall study the ability to detect the pretence of man. 

For the Sun is a gossip and nothing is hidden under yet it is an Occult. 

What hope do i have then, 

When silence leaves me hopeless with a Yes or No. 

An answer not brave enough. 

The sin the fathers committed is paid by his Children. 

An unjustifiable act of Nature.. 

A blameless blame, 

The Wickedness of Family, 

The love that hurt. 

This i do not want to listen though i forgive but can not disremember. 

Nature can not deny my memory it’s remembrance of those wonderful bad times… 

When the bird sings all day, 

To have peaceful night. 

Or when the love for man, measured by his Sins. 

Or the Curse to climb a ladder in the dark. 

This is a life of counted time, 

And this things i have always conjured up. 

Once upon a time, 

i used to remember in a dream,

Where stranger meet strangers

Till death wakes you up to Nothingness. 



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