Nights are closed days are pass, so on and always from page one.
Page two wasn’t any different just making inference from page one and maybe the prologue.
Life wasn’t that bad, I wasn’t that sad, I might have been very glad that I had a life perhaps.
Death always had it way life had many things to say. Many things to see, many rights to make and wrongs to change.
But all these had their space, all these came under a particular chapter, which was close to home and a family.
On page forty I had to forfeit, on page one hundred I had to claim those sixty pages lost.
Brought to my knees, a tale stung by me, the daggers and knifes, deceit and lies.
My vice caught up with me, but nights pass as days came.
So I washed all the mud for a new day, laid back in a new packed hay, cruising through it all, at least I am alive.
On the last chapter I painted it grey, for I once stood behind the fence, once upon a time I was in front of the fence and just yesterday I stood on the fence.
I wrote my life, in pages in the nights that run through the days.
So here I am, on day three hundred and sixty-five with my hands lifted up and my head up, saying thank you to the lord.
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