Self-abortive, psychoactive,
broken lyrical machine...

He says his thoughts are tangled like
Thorns...

Colour leach between lines,
Ink is that...

Lost connection,
Grey flesh, concrete...

Bend
shake...

His life is a mirror, the mirror is stained.
He thinks he knew what they meant this time...

"A bird!" cried he, and tipped his head...
Mouth open, as if the cloud would crack...

Oh, you child of Earth and seed,
Wingless fledgling of ochre blood...

I turned my back to the Sun's harsh rays,
Haven't a lust for light these days...

You've got constellations hidden in your smile,
Show them to me...

What's the beauty of the setting sun?
The colours although the night has come...

Why are there never as many roses as thorns?
One flower...