Ending of the thought does not bring a lull.
It is a sequel beyond my reach.
An old extrication, I dig for my roots.
The forgotten names, the unhealing wounds of a doctrine,
a tiny memory of pulsating embryo, not yet born!
Fear generates a kill.
Ferocious movement inside the cells slowly,
you become zero without a center.
The tangent skips on your surface.
Claustrophobia.
You start breaking the walls.
Fighting anxiety and shame, a timeless timber without a foliage.
My ignition point is hurt in the new culture of game.
How we approach the road, which smells the death, blood or smoke?
The passion is a hurricane.
Uproots all the bones, shatters all the roots.
A glory reckons after a while, for the election of sorrow.
