POEM/Again is Sunday / In the night that he speaks Like dry stones Eyes have been made to me Of solitude Stubbornly sinking

Again is Sunday

My voice
I'm caught up in that
Desolate memories
The corrosion is drowned
This Sunday
And look forward to the most anticipated
He dies in the dying
People have arrived
Comforting comfort me
And I crazy
Sing the boredom.

sh.k.