Cantillate Lullaby

The scent of wintry on Hari Raya eve was et all, fun. Entreating jovial notion of all beloved soul. Vibrant. Poignant. Sallow. Hollow. Fathomable for fervour fabrication. Pulsation of booming voices were ubiquitously propounded. Sporadic, like the blistering warmth of my lonely desert. Is human gluttony equals to empathy?

Indolent vista. Effervescence inertia. It was not of a celebration nor a coruscate.

And even if it’s not of our dreams, you have always believed in me.*

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Sprinkling stars were concealing its gallantry, wedged in pompous niftily, dextrously condensed, elapsing testament moment. Baroness of feral dream. Intermittent. Blustery. Temperance. Billows of lunacy had its own time. Agilely swirling, gyrating unto it’s own pinnacle.

Our lines entwined like no tomorrow. Perpetual. Corollary meandering in my deity labyrinth. Coagulated with sweetness of memories. Mystifying the mystical. Dreams are the only thing that keeps me going.

I know my world is so cold and flat, and you deserve more than that.*

*Home - Buble