Walk on by

Days are streams of consciousness, which mutilated into shreds and particles of juggled dreams. Months constitute of racings of blurred days; the fastness awes, the vastness crushes.

I am shoved through many mazes of woods, rivers, and streets. The flying smoke of the fox in the woods lulled me in my wooden cradle; blanketted my shivering core with its redwhite silken fur. I lingered into the river and was pushed by the slithering two headed serpent through the blazing water. Closing my eyes, I inhaled all the fluids and the ray of light into my lungs. At this moment I reached the mouths of the uncountable streets and begin my bewildered journey of trials and errors. I am still here.

Swaying in between

days are streams of consciousness, months constitute of racing blur