the year of a four that i have loved
like butterflies hovering
from another petal to another's
the words are drifting by
like dead wood on murky rivers
like a maple leaf
would fall on a grey autum afternoon
the touch is a mere brushing
of a wind to a boulder
like a fish that is trapped
beneath a clear ice slab
your stare is as cold
as the moon on a clear december night
like the sun's rays
would irritate a scum on a pond
and lilies would bow with ire to intense heat
your presence is as dead
as mirage on a red sandy desert
like seasons would change
like time would slowly pass
these thoughts that is of you
would not go at last
another product of boredom of taxation... *sigh*
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