With every day that ends,
the hands of thought so it bends,
A faded blend of colors
streched clouds of showers
Abysmall depths of thought
in void spaces of doubt
Infinite loss
to an empty engross
Innumerous roads
with trifling modes
innocence in mellow,
naivete in yellow,
What it is that makes it so,
I might never know.
Friday, September 12, 2008
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