My face is tarnished like an old silver dime,
Wrinkles imprinted with unmetaphoric gloom.
Time pulsates endlessly into the crepuscular moment,
I wane little by little until my shadow totally wraps me up.

My poetry, a rosarium without crimson glee,
Withers like a tattered rose's wing.
I, a poet, stare sadly at my seasonal sonnets,
Tears trickle like streams of bitter feelings.

In the cold celestial, the grievous nightingale await to kiss the planet goodnight.

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