As cicadas screech on branches, the weather cools.
The chill climbs up to the top of a tree, vandalizing at will.
In messy autumn,
pine needles accumulate on a dress, sharp but delicate.
Seeking something relatable in lukewarm breasts,
The skirts insist on twisting their bodies.
Drive the remaining summer at night away.
As nightingales sing in dreams, the people age.
The colors of dusk cover the quilt and roll around.
Folding the wavy roof, the fictional life thins away, tasting like nothing.
Dilute the bile that gets too thick with water.
The youth runs his best,
Chasing the superfluous self under the moonlight away.
As days are skimmed on streets, the hands shake.
Words are leaked from fingertips, as snowflakes,
Crawling over the dilapidated walls.
Dust on feet is changing, from bitter to salty.
Vague scenery changes its look.
Feet that know nothing about weakness and strength,
Walk through the remaining steps.
Gone before Aging.
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