Everything must
come to a naught,
this life, love,
and this time,

after certain
expendable limits
that trigger
configured

association of
movement and
stillness.
They may reach

the acme of
perfection
before they slip
into the Hades of

imprecise
imperfection
from where you
could neither

look back with
nostalgia nor
retrieve those
moments you had

lived with the self
same indulgent
passion or an
assurance.