There are many questions in the little thing called
The consciousness and the state of madness
Which is shared with one and many
And these questions are solved by your present self
And the future and present seem to coupled into enervating instances
These are the premonitions of an old sailor
Who would be better in fiction, than a real Marauder
Such was the cry of the Ancient Mariner
Time only unravels, how much it mentions the need for apotropaic antipathy towards birds and people as such
Slightly touched and cursed by time
If you indulge in a cup of thoughtful tea
And the green color of the intoxication
By the death of a positive soul when, this imageless perception
Becomes beyond your grasp of imagination
Then the cold rain can even seem hot at the right time
With a system of channeling your fighting spirit
Cursing your opponents when they seem weak