Preword 006

Whispers are the spies of darkest nights,
Hovering around the clouds, waiting to descend.
Everything is ready to move on and make their part, 
Regarding souls and thoughts that shackled by the past.
Endless searching within the bushed thorns leave bruises,
Insufferable to withhold within the riping of the ages.
Spontaneous haste sometimes become the bane for sincere,
Tackling those others to fulfill the fruitless efforts,
Running rounds in circles of the never-ending plays.
Universe itself are the playground for those who is above,
Enjoying every minute, sending phantom struggles down,
Leveling the efforts of empathic souls in futile hopes.
Over and over, making same steps repeating,
Vouching in madness that some changes will come, 
Everything will be in same places again.