ChinaRose

The past,
Like the incubus surrounds me,
Every second,Every Minute,and Every day.

The desolation,
Like the old song,
never stop sigh.
And the Beloved one,
Sitting in the swing,
Listening to the sounds from the past,

The wind,
Touch her slient face,
Echo with her voice inside.

Life,
Like the quiet lake,
No dimple,but cold.