Atrocious were the ancient wounds.
Jasmine breeze under moon light deepens his scars,
His soul enjoyed horrible pleasures,
The uneven guilty ones at dawn,
Just never mind me, it will be over soon,
Once my weak heart dashes into bits.
By then, she will be hugging another,
hugs that praises shallow guilty pleasures.
Sick of guilt, fears, and lousy you.
His life was a chain of predictable changes. However, direction matters. Adding a bit of caramel to the chaos and suppression anecdote formed the charismatic city where he stayed idle, homeless, and somehow contented.
At seven, he became addicted to caramel, his mother told the school teacher pointing at his neck. Awkward, thus uneven personality, constantly infusing his temper.
No way novice professional abandoning drivers’ seat; he cries. Hell, nothing but a deemed illusion of rooted scars.
Life After Fifty 