Seasons, like pages of a romantic horror novel,
Turn yellow over the green, as white turns on black
A city has grown on me and outgrown itself
Lanes, sickles and vehicles crumple into voids of fame.
You would listen to me when surrounding waterfalls
Would cascade into a myth about long lost butterflies;
In an evening, which drenches itself in search of an alibi
Each raindrop will belong to you, each would be mine.
And thus in such a world where realities cease to exist
I roam around, free, of you and me, of monotonous creeks.
The moon shines pleasantly, with a hot-spot over the ridge
The spot might be a volcano for all I know; who gives a shit?
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