Poetry

Adieu, you may not
become a meal
of violence?

The pheromones are
released for predatior
after the embrace. Don't follow
the path of hawk in sky.

O, opal, what
colour you are going to
opt at the marriage of moon?

The nascent pain
is taking birth. The seed
cannot promise to become
a tree.

The trams morals
are moving like centepeds,
you raise your hand to
ask a question of time!