It is the season of murder and dust
but it is not like a bullet.
The warmth of the setting sun comes
rushing on the letters.
It is the very longing to be black
but all chairs would be removed.
Let’s not talk about swaying, the glasses
would enter into my eyes.
Continuous searching of my body
does not yield any truth any yearning for the past.
Only the dream glasses that covers
the habitual hollow looks.
Tearing away the sleep the nails
and looking at the mesmerizing shadows
of the lustful tingling.
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