In all my born days,
the same instinctive, almost compelling urge
tucks in the childhood dreams of  love
in a pine bed.
Joining up a mystery cult
has never made my life list
Instead, growning up, 
the persistence of my resolutions,
has subdued  their obstinate constancy
to the heart-pounding  thrills
set to inflame the final hours
of a formal wake.
Some canyons inspire second-guessing,
Zip-lining is thought  too  extreme
with gravity on our side,
some of us cannot have a long stay,
either scanning or skimming  through life,
we change  the colours which portray  our becoming
beginning to end.
Deductions may be speechless or not,
But headlines of  big  breaks
and  unlucky strikes,
are no breaking  news, they only prove
the cronyism of fate. Still  barefooted,
There’s hardly any warming  for your trail,
with no affordable aid to deny it,
My voice is the only echo coming back.

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