Who Am I

The past is not deprived of its events resting in the bosom of bygone valley, carved in rigid love craftily decent like the gulp graciously landing at sea port of belly. While the future eludes not the belle with whom it has had memoir in hallucination of seducing hands, tender in caressing its belly for commensurate rewards in anticipation. Meanwhile, I’m like a hand of time progressively sitting in the middle of the counted and uncounted mines. Maverick confronted with seasoned dribble. When will I stop my heels from accelerating in cycle? The weary marathon is recycled such that it leaves considerable intervals yet to be circled, even though I always thread forward in retrogressive circle. No counting is of the old till I grow old in the cold. Shrouded in a coat as I repeatedly quote ‘Who Am I?’