Poem: Who Bloomed

Like the roses that opened last season
The dream will descend into the heart like the doom,

I have to spend the night on a pile of ash
My tents have burned like my dreams,

The hourglass ones are pink so far
Like the gilded hijab of the first moments,

If it is the sea, then the soul will rejoice
Why Does Adultery Gives Me Like Potions?

It is impossible to count the roses of the house
Like the counts of my stab wounds,

But you still remember those things
Like closed books kept on the shelf,

Who knows what to read in the new year
Your quality varies like curriculum,

The hobby becomes still the brightness of the three eyes
Like interesting answers from time to time,

Roger's Night Murray will knock in isolation
Your happy smell is like lost dreams.