Monday, February 2, 2015

Come Out || Go To

a piece of paper | a pair of glass
blank to all writers | black and white people pass
Breeze touches our face | earth scorching farms
rain sheds its tears | no fire alarms
soul searching spirit | a multiplication to sway
a dry contact | folded eyelashes 
on a fancy hill | a busket ruins the day
the brick wall is red | layers of fleshes
a spicy will | the peel of an onion
the end is sad | tomorrow cannot be worse, honey.
Spring Flowers - 09