Sitting
on the park-bench, the sky goes rotten gray;
the
light shines upon the pedestrians, who happy merry may
go
for the life what seems to me unstained.
Sitting
on the park-bench mesmerized and maimed.
Just
an ugly carcass no bold expressions or fame
waiting
for the lightning, judging for the rain.
The
hour seems a bit late – missed the last train…
just
like messing up with… don't wanna remember her name.
Not
much to offer, no seconds to ask lame;
when
the minutes and hours of joy shamed,
to
pronounce the end of a fair game.
Like
withered leafs of last year a forgotten ale…
Sitting
on the park-bench, the drops like blood on hay;
the
mind goes waste to crumble; flying with birds of Jay.
Nevermore
to be loved, to not feel the pain,
so
that the rain might be on mercy and not in vain...
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