Fear of a mound, tumbling down on the half-buried, half dead archives of desires, comes like a stampede of hoops on my chest. I lie alone in a desert of insanity.
From the sea of agony one drop of salted tear, the title of a wasted life, brings the blood stained truth. I want to wash my eyes again.
To watch the autumn leaves falling on impeccable stones for forgiveness. We were not the fruits.
A song of blind water enters the earth to kiss the roots, foo giving liberation from sun leaked night.
