The trag

Traces of the feet,

left unbound,

eyes lit as of a morning gazelle,

losing all in a packed box,

like the sun wandering for light

in baffling dense amazon;

on course,

mystic blues,

washed away emotions,

desperately call the Junge;

linked in aromas,

from the flutter of the pikes,

feels like summer on a breezy winter night,

astute traces left behind,

it all comes back

like a boomerang,

to unfurl pique,

the nudnik of your life,

the wimp,

was standing with a vase of disney,

for you.


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