Summer starts with a sticky note,

Lunar synapse of carbon paper towels,

through the spaces of dark, music shakes

at the core, a madman is dashing across the street hooks.

Half-past two,

Halfway through biles,

at forty-five, they open the door—

Say what, "Taste of liberation!"

He spits out the red liquid, "Beverage of suppression?"

"Youth is a cursed child," It watches with a wink—

without a spare of think, a sort of bright

to make it dark or hide, it's a prelude of dance,

"Have you escaped from the grasp of hunch?"

Nothing but some unashamed tears, as the purr

of soul stretches out in the sky, trampled upon

with heavy lids, you can see the child's eyes

flutter in the light shutters.

Half-past five,

minutes ago, the night hail's to depart

now only stays hollowness behind,

search of highs and lows,

nearly died with a single blow! 

━━━━━━━━━━

Part three (last part) is coming soon!