Don’t push me.
Canst never be penetrated,
thy phantom at large.
Canst never be speculated,
the hue of thy eye.
A gust of wind,
a moment of muse.
Capricious was love, as unpredictable was life.
Confess to me,
what in hell deluded thy soul.
thy profile vanished into the darkness.
Shall what results come out, with the blossom of peach.
Seen thy moon-like lonely gaze in thy arms,
may thou be carefree in the arms of another.
P.S. Happy Birthday, Mr. President.
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- February 22, 2009 / 5:58 AM