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Art
Art
Art
is never serious
it is less than a statement
but more than a joke
Morning
Moon
Grey wind
Howls

Sophistication of
Alaska snow even
Buries those holding
Bouquet of rose

The sudden ennui
Kills the burning fire
When partly sunny turns
Mostly cloudy
When the universal hue remains
Silent with a smile
Whose sly portrait
Flashes once in a while

Yet this book of a surrealist
I hold close to my chest
Secures me whose oblivious minds
Attempts to retreat to the west
and the feeble flame of
The spark of a pen
Ignites my depressing hay
To fight or not to fight?
Please make up your mind

The sun won't ever help you, it only
Make you see
Take me to your new house that you just
Built on the tree

Show me the way to your door
My little pink squirrel
The night is fruitful
and it stretches on forever
with no light or voice to vie
to me the darkness provides
to me it never lies
my mind becomes calm and agile
like a figure in the caricatures

so I diligently fantasize the time
who speaks to me through the ticking of the old clock
who paints the dusky room with ink that darken every second
who puts a tranquil aura on items that touches my skin
who proudly reveals its presence over every other elements
who is the now, the ever, and the everlasting end
I disappear under the shade
Nobody ever knew my name
All you had to do was wave
And I would silently break the pane

— The End —