Offsprings were preoccupied with their spiral career, you feel sorry.
You don’t get the sleep,
core feelings flee from the windows of an ailing house.
A cloud softens again in the eyes.
Wronged truth has created an aparthied in ranks of candles.
Inner pain gropes towards the spot between eyes.
You survive by the whispers of absolute bliss.
Looking becomes a sequential text.
The self divides the darkness into hot flames.
Outpouring the anguish, the frailities.
At dawn, the blackness of dripping night fades.
The earth wins the moral nothingness,
beyond the regrets of inspired sermons.
The psyche is rooted deep in the mud,
topless dust spreading the message of preferred truce.
