Wind by my ear.
The window's half shut,
showing the clock at midnight,
Across two blocks and a field.
I see myself in an illusion.
A painting in museum,
A mural on the street,
A gold glided ornate,
A masterpiece.
I see my extra lives.
Through a million broken lens
Built Kaleidoscope.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoésieA small collection of poems which I write when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
