The way back it worked the pretention, the parthenogenesis.
Now we are lying without any affair, in self-deception.
The belief has no walls.
The truth inside and the truth outside –
there is no placenta in between,
foetus dies in the womb.
Unpleading, immaculate, zen bleeds in chips.
My god is lying dead.
My butterflies have gone, perched on moon I am looking for stars.
