A Hollow Interval

The year's ending soon.
Part of it's worth fantasizing.
Hell knows what's touching our senses.
Hope I would come to meet someone who could foresee the future,
like unfolding pages in novel in advance.
When the future, will, be bright and nice,
it is a sin to tell out before it comes to realization.
While the future's going to be devastating,
it is a sin to not tell out even though,
I wonder, anyone could foresee that.

The earth's becoming hotter, gradually,
there, hardly is a place to breath,
even air with dusts swarmed aghast,
even breeze with dim sunlight hung askance, still as ever,
you and I stood for living necessities evaporated like,
been-hopeful, current-realized mirage.

Hopes slowly became a fragile silhouette.
There's no vacancy for human beings, no lungs for storing air.
When years and years embellished, decades to come,
between them are nothing,
but a blank plot,
an empty story of hollow intervals.

Senses

Sandra says lifeless-

it gets pretty empty sometimes.
Then, always followed by cold, cold.
Out of the equator now, snows over the north, blaze over the south.
Moderate it remains here.

Visions become blur at times;
Sounds become... inaudible.

Taste loses its stimulation,
Attempts become more feeble than I could figure out.

Breeze out there howling for vacant oddities.
With no inkling in advance, nightfalls are reliefs.
The next day, off it goes the memories and senses,
fluorescence goes dim, dimmer,

Ultimately, vanishes.

Frequency

Different beings on earth depends on their very own frequency.
We vary, differ.

On different track.
Each of us.
There light glows, probably, where light comes, it relies.
Something aren't right, most probably.

There is a frequency,
particularly, you and I.