Old station (group poem)

Autumn is the past I don't want to convert to.

I am a swing that swings with the wind.

I am eager for your dream as scheduled.

If you are drunk, you can save some sadness.

A cup of loneliness, I drink it quietly.

Fiona Fang is 500 miles away, and I can't find my own shadow.

It's late at night, and the moonlight is so pious

Make a wish after worshipping yourself in the past.

My heart is empty, like a gust of wind soothing the thoughts in my heartbeat.

My eyes look at you, and bleached tears are rippling.

I want to cry with the sea and continue the landing of the ship.

The other shore, where are you?

I believe in Buddhism. A stick of incense is like breathing air.

Autumn is a reluctant past.

I'm waiting for you. This is a life-and-death dilemma.

Copy it in the notebook of love and never turn that page again.

Masuo bar

I love you because you are thinner than the wind.

I love you because you are lighter than rain.

Whenever I love you, it's simple.

You don't need a reason to exercise.

You stand there.

Like a street lamp, it illuminates my loneliness.

The girl waiting for the bus

The moon is waiting there, too, separating me from the shadow.

I may be the brightest star who loved you in my last life.

Girl waiting for the bus, give me your hand.

I want to put the roses in your eyes at night.

Ask you out quietly

Until you dream of my flashing thoughts.

And a cup of incomparable night

I'll meet you at Marceau's at midnight.

Old station

Accustomed to taxis, accustomed to pedestrians.

The number of steps in a day will change the distance of dusk.

If life needs love,

I'll go deeper.

I'll chase you if I can't.

Or take a bus

The old station is your back.

I do not have the change.

Got tangled up with a coin given to me by a girl.

Could it also be a token?

When waiting for the bus, I was actually waiting for her.

Editor's comment:

The poetry group takes waiting as a clue, waiting for the world, waiting for people, waiting for the station and waiting for the end. Waiting for a wonderful secret love, crossing the night sky, waiting for the stars, waiting for the moon, waiting for a luxurious lighting feast. Waiting for the lonely dream has been rolling, blue, with ambiguous warmth. People have been waiting all their lives until they are happy or shed tears. That is the voice they yearn for, and the poet's waiting is fateful, like a firework, with only moments and no eternity. Good poem, recommended boutique!