The dead leaves of the plant stand still,
their tan is no longer to be avoided.
If you listen, the sound is shrill,
no one has the imagination to think laterally.
But death is here, there, and everywhere,
quietly and unnoticed, it haunts us.
Either it seems a great incident,
or peaceful as the morning haze.
Being human is passion We don't live for fun Or boredom We live because being human Seems to be passionate confusion
At night, the evening wind falls 6 wheels meet tar Didn't know where I was at all My liver fully empty Shards scream A firework But nobody celebrates Not even me Suddenly there's 10 Then 6 I couldn't
No marrow In bone Nor sight In eyes No wagging tail But another of good size Cutting claws is unnecessary For they are but an accessory You are not born to cuddle To love Should only worship your mist