Here again we are standing against
the wall of silence...

The metastatic figure.
He was seeking truth without thought...

Go forth alone, as a beast,
as a bird, as a fish...

An evening primrose glides,
on my rough hands...

No more venom for me. My throat is full
and sore is spurting...

There was no beginning
no ending...

A lifetime with a classic pain,
does not give me peace or freedom...

The crisis,
a distinctive nothing...

Must we go beyond
the black holes of burned books...

The decline is steep and fast
Life groans...

Unmasked inside,
we play the games of a torch...

An uneasy blood cascades
in the slender arteries...