Why my buoy start to linger in riddles.
But I got bugs around.
Reminds me the life's growing pain.
How i hurt myself from not knowing.
Like a death of the bug,
so compeling to obsession.
Then grow up to be a fish.
Urge for the taste of sensual feelings.
May the adjetives free my longing.
Then become a bird.
Free and foresee about the world and love.
To beg for a promise each time look down on life.
Yet life's beauty shown in four legs.
Proudly presents the strong and courage.
To roar and praise for a gift.
Now im an age years old person.
Linger in this crowd.
Linger in this hue tone.
Linger in time ..
That the last thing to earn,
is to pay to the cross.
But my rod, my bait, my buoy and my string remains,
when God lets me fishing.