บท 14: Minute
Minute
Steps thrown into a possible future and
A hope to be comfy in distant land
Minute stress in fields this grand
How yet have I not cut my hands
Once again for blood to flow
From it springy buds grow
Flowers and onion grass shape my tears
Forming a blindness,I can only hear
The nagging of my thoughts to keep up
Petals bloomed in my drowsy sockets
Descending fear in my gut
My eyes now peonys,no longer faucets
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