The wind and its wuthering, autumn in light and winter in
shade,
Blue eruptions--aliens so far--enveloped the core, who
knows?
Ducked into the alley of heart, a wandering phantom now
sleeps,
Like an innocent impish child quite reluctant to leave, who
knows?
Now and then I sit thinking of you amid subdued amber
glow,
Enduring the stay of memories-a few wingless birds, who
knows?
The hollow murmurs of passion throng around a sad, sallow
soul;
My fizzog hides the frozen pain of a faded flower, who
knows?
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