A Traveling Mind And Its Agony..

Wrapped my wrath as a simple gift: to myself as a souvenir of days spent, glossy paper with colorless flowers, on it makes it buried with a black bow, wanted to hide it while you sing from, another planet holding a red rose, I don't know where your bundles, of sorrow are hidden: under the pillow? Or in the deepest chamber of a recycling, pump, which is recently connected, with a new device, but you feel anew, not aware of the red moon at the offing, melancholic thought still to identify, the bed where I last checked in, while you sit on the tall tower, repeating the verses of love in despair,