Parties
Gathered in all directions sat a flame of old loan.
The greasy hands of the rivers and lakes are no longer able to identify the fingerprints of the past.
The glass reflects the cold and bright temperature and begins to become false.
Every symphony of clinking glasses has a reason to boast.
Every hypocritical response has a sinister city.
Loneliness always hides from some restless soul.
For example, a free ** insurance contract for youth to be late.
Or the social bargain about the grand planning of alcohol.
Sing "Shame on the lonely man." "It's not all lonely.
In the airtight jungle, the air needs to be exchanged for symbiosis.
And a flower chokes the withered lips and still leaves the fragrance.
The vertigo atmosphere resembles a gray vomit and filthy painting.
The self-relief and relief of the end.
It's more like picking up garbage with a book of poems when sweeping the sofa.
Dandelion
Dedicated to Mother. After the dandelion flew away, the earth was waiting for a hug.
The initial freedom and dreams of leaving the dirt are still being realized.
The thorn is more like a gentle arrow, which has no intention of hurting each other.
A white mass wanders again from the gift of a cracked womb.
Dreams fly and gold descends, and every kiss turns into a dandelion.
The children came into the wilderness and swirled with the wings of the wind.
The adventures of the lost have the tears of the mother, watching and undertaking.
When it was difficult, the dandelion wrote poems and wrote about spring, and the most painful thing was the waiting for the soil to dry up.
Land, return, and be reborn.
The repayment of the infinite gift is the ultimate repetition of life.
Each child gives the mother a youthful smile back.
Each dandelion is dedicated to the earthy fragrance of spring.
Ghost Didi taxi
The ghost distorted through the cracks in the light.
The flickering old record was hoarse.
Hang down the brim of your hat and paint your face with tears.
Colors hide the ripples under the sight.
Sow the four seasons to go rolling the muscles of the force, reproductive swelling.
Pressing down the black other half of the body.
The weight of the vocal cords is intoxicated with the sweetness of light.
Rise from the floating-sensing temperature peels off the seeds.
The ending predicts the growth of singing and voice before departure.
The carriage of the moon was covered with feasts of broken silver.
Time rushes to the trip of the childhood remnant white horse.
Stop, let the tombstone crawl down the text.
Dig up the old soil and take a taxi again at night.
The ground will be sewn apart, and the shadow will be returned to the body.
Blood-colored footsteps approached, dripping, dripping, dripping.
Author:Lan Bing, currently living in Xi'an, is a doctor and a member of the Sleep Poetry Society. I love to write poems, I want to be washed by the heavy rain, and I want to kiss the dripping lily of the valley in the poem.
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.