A Mild Observation

A scar in the seasoned wood Stigma hereby, Chaotic sound’s running nearly Which dancing with the peculiar breeze Plea to the timbre, Plea to the chaos, Signs are like tragedy, as they're multiethnic; Mooniest doors reverberate the breeze Slowly, softly or gently They caress with smoothness Shy appearance or shameless Beneath the doors, A black floor’s waiting He's making a hush sound Oh! What a regret! What a feeling of unavoidable negligence! Observer is only the scared seasoned wood.