My days at Penlandia definitely reached its afterglow

Now it's hard for me to find my rhythm

Hopefully, some of my poetry will find their mark

If not unto someone's head, then to somebody's heart

Hopefully, my works are not just delinquent

Not merely a blot or just an ink wasted

I crafted them to touch, stab, kill and make love

To bring peace into hell and create fire unto the sky above

It's up to your eyes now

Hate my stuff or love them

My pen is getting thin

Worms are beginning to feast unto my skin

That's why I'm writing this poetry as if my last

But if you see me deploying another poem

Might I remember some of life important phase

Besides, even at afterglow the sun still have a beautiful rays

Mysterious Aries
11/19/2015