Life is but a second spread out amongst the perils of time in the precision of hours that make up the moments, till death herself calls you into her *****. As for love which transcends the perils of time and is heard as a whisper. To which the perils of time, parts letting love dwell in the procession of time itself. It seems that darkness reigns in this flurry of emotions. As do flowers wilt and die so does everything. Precession of memories haunting in a never-ending thought.
Posey 2014