You know this mad world's manipulating and toying around mind games when you wake up feeling jaded from the same old tales. Like a aged piece of crumpled paper, the words written on it fades into a diminish of nothing.

Wishing is solace in momentary refusal of admittance. Hoping is praying to the god that lingers somewhere from the grounds we breathe on to a place higher than the heavens.

And love, is like a battery. It needs consistent recharge, powers at both negative and positive forces and can possibly wind up redundant if the catalysts to its optimum function are not replenished.

These mornings have betrayed flickering hopes I harboured during moments when the unconscious had me hostage. The refill of spirit is somewhere at the back of your hands and tongue. Brim me back up and iron me out; I can't stand alone.