The annual promise of winter's cold, of Atlantic's...
Speaks more now, seems less then...

Everlasting time eating up a meal
Decorated brain-men, fated to die...

Here I rest in piece
The pieces of me...

They wait for then, and in the end
The lead machines will eat the men...

Broken bones bred this
Broken home...

Hold your breath
Too wary, too cold...

Opening doors
Closing lives...

The breaking clouds might win again
They will never be my friends...

Mud of blood and earth
Beneath these feet...

In a dream
She wears a flowered skirt (she always does...

Shadows fringe on my paper
Two worldly spectrums combine...

These people are plastic
Their eyes without names shine paper or air...