Those wrinkled stages,
Those withered slots
Those plated memories:
Those deliberately unfenced plots.
Those eyes, the shine
as if I am seeing a mime.
The misunderstood faces,
The unstoppable analysing sense’s graces.
Those unwanted hours,
Those burdened days
Those philosophical turns,
Those matured plays.
Those green-phases,
Ready to be mean in the mean
Those ideas flat and lean,
Those flows, I never desired to be seen.
Those drilling moments of sigh,
Gone and spent to come back
Those fake assurances:
Ready to subsist and will never fly.
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