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,