At the end of the thought
was sadness...

Civil war:
Again you are visiting...

From the ramparts of a castle
a wallflower jumps...

In last journey he wanted to have
a free run without rumors...

Priests of cave temple
go to sleep. Street urchins...

The green hills are drinking
the clouds...

He was wading through the frozen pain
unhappy at himself...

I will deceive the immortality
in my inadequacy, between myself...

That tribal instinct sits in the denial.
Words fly in fog carrying absurd meanings...

I recognized the vitriol.
There was blood on your hands...

Again the panic grips.
Clones from the frozen cells of rot-scented...

Prepare the bed
of the liquid art...