The pattern on your forehead
Reminds me
Of the vague lines
I saw on the railway track
From miles away
In the foggy night
Like a tangled barbwire
Your worries caught up
In the wrinkles all over your face
The lines are neither liner nor horizontal
But it has its new way of line itself
Which has not a beginner or end line?
But it got tangled deeper and deeper.
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