Blurriness of the uninterrupted horizon makes me a miserable cricket, making urban croon.
It was June.

The potholes in the avenue where homeless hunters sleeps, holding waters of ceaseless reflections.
It was mobbed with my conviction.

Now the moon is leaned towards right sky, teaching compassion and dynamism to children living under smudged sheets and taking patrol for a breeze.
It was never actually my kind of night to seize.

Drink, one more drink, one more, one more, one more lagoon to score.
It was a shadowless night that I was meant to go by the shore.

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Photograph: Gratis Afbeeldingen.