Times

Humans' lives are so short and meaningless. Just like the grass, existed today and be gone tomorrow. Our pride is our struggle. But He Who made the life, is The One who can make it meaningful.

O I have known the better days...

The warm touches by the crystals of the sun...

Also the cool hands and kisses from the starry night...

Those are the food of my soul...

Sweet and creamy juices for my bonding blood...

I also know the tasteless eras...

Lonely cries bursting out from the ignorant hearts...

Sucking dry the living red lips of the younger hope...

Those are the cursed traps of my soul...

A round of bitter chocolate to my very pulse...

O I know the seconds of suffer...

When I was a dying prisoner in the prison of the mind...

And a breathing captive staying by the barbaric tribe of feelings...

Those are the thorns and the whip to my soul...

Savory presence to my bloody false tongue...

And then...

Who is He?

He knows every ages and turns.

He's The Thinker, He's The Doer.

The inky ink of the time He is holding.

Two thousand years old stories He was winning.

He gives the creams, He gives the dark.

He gives the presence, He gives the crumbs.

Ruthless? No.

Mighty? He's All.

It is a comfort to my living vanity.

A final dessert to my aching pains.

It is...

Well...