The odor brings the
neo-violence, along the fault line...
I walk through the slush
of moral grief...
A damp moon
staggers across the sky...
It was in reach for,
a chilling sensation...
The falcom rises again.
With pointed wings...
A name without
a face. I am an ancestor...
Pushed up against bark,
The leaves blown in the wind gust...
Between life and death
a photo finish race...
The heritage
went for a sale. A tree...
Cold as ice,
Hot as lava...
Let me write a signature
theme, without cubic...
How much honest you were
while climbing the stairs...