Your hair is short,
And, You've beautiful eyes.
I am a lonely street,
Listening to the evening wind.
But, The wind would come to
spoil the moon,
And, I would fit in this noisy truth.
A natural flower being too dead,
to mock the
sleeping sequence of-
a buzzing hope.
The scraggy anger would get absorbed,
like salty waters among the gravels,
deep below, and all down below,
The foam of disguise.
But I would rise again, to make it sure,
The Eclipsed Moon,
to eat your Rose,
And I would toil my Greeky hands,
All hunger, but an image fails.
And, I would capture an orange light-
For, I would burn my fear with an asymmetrical fright.
And, I would intoxicate the absence of all links,
upon the suspended mechanics of all-