Meadow flooded with gray
leaving sheep astray
Blue sea turns blue
'tis the loneliest place i ever knew
Blood shed above east
This cold wind is but the least
a mending ground from shake can feel
after on its chest, sharp thorns dwell
This poem tries to draw a lovely curve
on world's face I almost cursed
it writes lines of pretense-blurred
with wicked borrowed force
'tis failure, the service I don't get
but frowning is never to make a face of regret
'coz everything that's left is just vanity
I don't care anymore, this poem kills me
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