A white cloud lobbying the end of the world
Sunlight, more than a dream.
True;The song of the angels.
In the exotic land, float past Qi Shu and.
Red maple's. Hometown.
When the fields are skewed towards the afternoon.
And he was brought by the goose's beak. In the wind. Alone.
There is purple. Jing, will.
Weaving, the fantasy of the crow.
The ocean soaked in death is like a lonely meter.
It's like a wave again. Waves and waves.
Written down with each other.
Restore the poem. Chapter.
Angels are in the distance, like a white cloud lobbying the ends of the world.
It's so beautiful that it doesn't eat the world.
Pyrotechnics. Wind.
Sand cut. Broken, wood rhinoceros.
A stubborn throat.
Outside the window, there is a hazy sadness.
Along with dust. Pounce.
I. For example, (the outer one).
So it is with glory, and so it is with withering.
Life no longer wants to make a sound.
The twilight, which has been dead for many years, is now with the gourd in autumn.
Hanging withered vines upside down. A lot of things are incomprehensible.
For example, morning dew, such as rape flowers.
It's going to be in full swing. Another example is first love.
The sponge of memory.
One could be brewed at any time.
Spring. And the human vision.
In the end, it is difficult to find the person to confide in, and the eagle cannot be broken casually.
Stranger's room.
Now that the chastity pants have been torn, what else to worry about, as long as there is a ray of light.
The moths will ignore the dark southern wall.
Head-on.
Creep
Hallucinations peristalsis life, and nights peristalsis stomach.
When the heart is at a loss, let love tear your heart apart.
Can I forget that the sun squirmed before plunging into darkness.
A light. Can.
Like a piece of wood flooding the river.
Float. Can I do it!
When the rain hits the plantain, he gasps heavily.
Rough air. Also at night.
Listen to the gray cry of the red date horse.
I also heard about it at night when I was playing chess.
The sword goes sideways. Whenever I dig into my heart.
Silt, how much I want to catch.
The beauty who looked back and smiled.
Fish. ――
Author:Ye Xiaosong, born in 1964, screen name, Prometheus (fire thief), columnist of the Reading Sleep Poetry Society, and a good poet in poetry writing. Some of the poems are included in "Reading Sleep Poems: Spring Blossoms" and "Reading Sleep Poems: The Grass Grows and the Warbler Flies". The language of poetry is unique, the poetry is agile, and he is good at digging out the poetic soil and building the castle of poetry from the silhouette of life. Poetry has its own unique meaning and specialness, and has a certain degree of recognition.
Read the Sleep Poet Shooting.
Face the sea and look for the light with your black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "speaking for grassroots poets" as its mission and promoting the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, the spiritual pleasure of poetry, and the revelation of poetry to living life.