It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
--Lord Byron
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My Poetic Heart.. <3
PoetryThis is just a product of the writer's scribbling and playing with words. Yet these peices of poetry unveils a bitter and pathetic reality.. *** This is my compilation of poems depicting the different sides of me.. Some of these are composed when...
