Picture @ early cherry blossom classmates Jiu Shijiu's first love poem and a rose of love (10 15) One autumn wind has a name, and I no longer love autumn.
The night was shrouded as usual. It's just that there is no more autumn thought.
There is a memory, sealed in the late autumn.
Slowly withered and rotted into dirt. A flower will never bloom.
Perhaps, on an autumn day, I think of a fallen leaf.
It once fell on my shoulders. The wind blew lightly, and he left.
I heard that the flowers would wither, so I missed the flowering period.
The petals are scattered and rainy, and there are no tears.
There were days and nights when we looked forward to meeting.
It's just that I'm always on the road.
After withering, it seems to give birth to new life.
Maybe it's just parasitism.
This piece of decay and withering will never bloom again.
When love goes into cardiac arrest, love turns to ashes.
Neruda's love poems are nothing but songs of despair.
Oh, the outcast".
All the preludes are only for the mourning song.
The cowardice and taciturn of the shy.
Any flower blooms at will. There is no fragrance.
Silence is written all over the indictment.
Maybe you have to bite your finger and draw it with blood.
Imprison the heart for a moment. And then eternal night.
Nothingness becomes eternal, and emptiness releases color.
Loss of color in the pupils.
The desire to pick up the three is gone, waiting for a heavy snow baptism.
Freeze the past and become an eternal snow-capped mountain.
In the world, the white-haired man just asked Qingsi how to break it.
How to add snowflakes to the temples, and beer can also be done.
paralysis, how the mind becomes dead ashes.
How to add sharp thorns to the veins of thoughts.
Blood flow can also make nerve pain sad.
So the rotten ones are looking forward to a snowy mood in the dilapidation.
Teach yourself to be an iceberg. There is a trace of warmth in the heart.
Maintain the inevitability of survival. In this way, a steady stream of blood burst out.
Build your own future. Let the decay blossom into its own flowers.
Icebergs naturally have snow lotus blooming.
I'm leaving. There is wind here, no snow.
I could see the morning and the fog.
The dream rain condensed on the stone steps, and passers-by had to be cautious.
I passed by in vain and bowed deeply. Fall. Bow down to the heavens. If there were gods, I maybe.
Impress the gods. The red rope is cut by the ethics of the 21st century.
Self**, inherit the position of the old month.
I am also touched by the wings of the world. I hate it even more.
The disguise of the mask, the betrayal and abandonment of the couple.
I escaped to the West and snatched Cupid's arrows.
Smeared with poison and shot those who left. They fall in love with what is in front of them, and they will end up in the same place for the rest of their lives
The slaves of Hades, shackles to keep their future, don't think about reincarnation. The animal road does not tolerate their reluctance.
I will resign and leave. They are all left to fend for themselves, according to their hearts.
In search of an unrelated god. Life and death are nothing.
One may have to look forward to the encounter of another life.
About the end of the period, the soul, collided with fireworks.
Then the muddy spirit was abandoned.
The sound of the night rain on the window can't beat the depth of the dream.
The people who drink the night are drunk in the spring.
No more looking forward to late nights, embracing every earliest sun.
No more glaring. The warmth was meant to be.
The fog will leave quickly, you won't come sooner.
2023.12.24 About the author: Mo Yu, a freshman student, editor of the school magazine "Huichuan", a member of the Bijie Poetry Couplet Society, and his works are occasionally published. **Elegy ink literature, original text, without permission, prohibited**, pirated text must be investigated. If you like it, please like and share, thank you for your support!100 help plan