Life either kills you
and takes away your
rifle or gives you the
only the chance in the world.
…And then he was gone.
Life either kills you
and takes away your
rifle or gives you the
only the chance in the world.
…And then he was gone.
Your words fall like echoes from a battlefield of fate,where loss and chance are but twin shadows of the same silence.
Yes a writer’s fate is but an echoing child mourning the loss of their childhood and bleeding poetry. Words are abundant but poetry is rare. And the latter is but an extensive charm to silence the loss and chance of shadows, while entering a gloaming rich in light.
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