The tree, the sky, the moon, of summer, prick the eyes.
We suffer majestically.
The aberrations will now rule the city.
Incorruptible winds languished in crooked lanes.
A pale hand will paint the unlatched doors.
When stars meditate in unison, moon upcurves.
The blue becomes dark, my eyes climb the hill.
The day has ended without a conclusion.
Clouds are frightened.
Virtue when cuts open the heart, it does not bleed.
Pseudoreality reigns, and we amputate the limbs without analgesics.
The philosophy of being is quietly murdered.
Green leaves start dying...
A terrible dream flicks the hope, a touch of class with littleness.
