Bleeding the planet
between life and death...

The night poem
crucial...

From uncultured to
subcultured, I was made to...

How much you can carry,
carving a deep gorge...

They will not allow the assisted suicide.
The beetles; fiery and drunk...

To disconnect oneself
you push apart, from the stasis...

Identity ravaged in snow dust;
now I am writing my name...

The roses you bring every morning
become an interval between hope and ending...

Watching the charred remains
of the toys...

Lashing out at invisible enemies
you focus on virtue test...

The wheels find,
the track on my body...

The template had the fault,
I was buried alive...