Panic Hearts

(Photo By: An Drior)

That kind of stare
Is a trap created by someone’s snare
The cursed wind that makes him stumble
Where it seems to be impossible
The unusual occasion passes through his eyes
Becomes ascendant and high
With a bare feet
To unleash himself from a deceit
After all, he was already attached
He wanted her fingertips to be touched
While his hands are dying to rave
He would plead to seek her face and make himself a slave

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