Was it
The floating black clouds?
Or the passing fresh breeze?
Maybe was it the roaring wind
Along with
The flaming old-gold color sun?
Yet it sure was the splattering cold rain,
I often caught in his glance
That could describe him and his pain.
His hair was careless
His behavior reckless
But his eyes hopeless
And his kiss tasteless.
The world’s illusions
Submerged people into confusion,
Deluding him who often had hope
To cope
With love and living.
But as all the things breathing
It too dies with the moments
Leaving people in all kinds of disappointments.