The way home

The tree line's blushing crimson, With a red lens, I'd have won -however, I haven't a thing. If I had much clearer sight, Everything would be more bright And life wouldn't seem like a ring.

The synthetic melodies Still keep buzzing like wild bees -stupefying and purposeless. While they're nice for an hour, They make one lose willpower And fall into deep waves of bass.

Nothing's important today Except to stay a sunray -keep a secret like a master, Lovely poetry, sweet tales Become stock with rising sales -remedy for a disaster.

Black silhouette drawn on glass And a field of drying grass -hello, my old friend, narrow street. The scent of fruits and pastries, Yet another line of trees, A void greeting to keep the beat.