Flowering

Ruminating cruel dreams,

Small poppy flower heel.

I always matched the soul,

With the weather outside.



I seem to drink the ice of dry summer,

When you inhale my ashes

Keep your voice down after I leave.

Where are my words?

When I hide around the corner?



Like a bookmark between the pages

Routine is like a quiche,

Addictive to the psychotic state.
I crammed my cold into the smallest suitcase.

To have a seat in the means of transport with which I am carried.

I would leave everything.

But the feeling of returning when it's sunny,

And a pleasant breeze of wind,

It makes me like it when I play hide and seek,
With my own life.