A grown-up man whose soul never grows.
Horrible kisses of butterflies haunt his mem’ries.
Trapped in a jar of abandonment.
Mentally ill, burnt in an outré life.
A senile, where cutting attachment was an Ad Infinitum.
Drowned in a caliginous room of fear.
Could only see eigengrau like the collision of black and white.
A cheerful dog that couldn’t shear its leash.
Flaming heart, a rogue one cries in a thin voice in a pouring rain.
Whine in silence, enduring bullets of sorrow.
Stabs of blame had turned into scabs.
Had left musty smell as an old building coruscating his susurrous mind.
Acts like a kid but never a cowardice.
Has nothing but Mang Tae, that crumbles nightmare, his only munition.
An invincible Beowulf who bleeds but never loses.
Woolgathering no more, probably will trap butterflies behind metal bars.
Busticate them one at a time as they vanish like pixie dust.