Sunday, September 16, 2012


Fatal chord melodies bring
Where not hear any breath,
The weight of living turns torment,
The dark and lonely nights
Diverse than much you promised me,
Still there remains even wind
While still try to breathe
Winning hands where terrible guides
Erratic paths by nothing
And as much as I could imagine
I could never find
Knowing the road as well as diverse
And the inn made of illusion
This is only my spectra in a summer.


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