the gaiety inside her is no other than doubt,
a caricature of her shows the face of slump,
with or without, she’s on the rout,
she couldn’t narrates her life,
even the herdsman realized ,
the story of marching sheep,
across the creek of sleep,
for all the strange that come,
she raises the gallant thump,
still she couldn’t spawn the stars,
with little pulsate on scares,
the moon changes its rhythm,
still she couldn’t find her film,
even the hidden kid in the bushes,
knows how to find the way out in hushes,
for all the the glory,
for all the story,
she’s no other than ordinary.
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