Fatigue

My life only a drop of dew on the face of arrogant rainbow.

Spot on the clean white garment,

banished by beauty of the elegance of Menard's face.

Enough a thousand words that poured out,

this paper can patch it no more,

bundle of desire which carved in poetic sentences,

merely empty thought of pathetic poet.

Season that decrepit at the end of time,

conceited, stayed wordless,

waiting for glory lost past long,

trying to ignore the age that eat its soul.

Ah, December rain,

overflowed wetting the lonely tree...

Somehow,

I still captivated by its beauty...