Sea of Indian summer
Every thing will past and you are alone.
Rip orange, the pendulum of a clock.
Sways once a year. Remainds me past.
All pale memories.
Seagulls bathed in the smile of the sun.
Fly to tomorrow without me.
I'm staying now. Looking for something.
Something I won't get.
Posted by 桐生 志門 at 1:09 PM