And how shall we trace the
trajectory of a lungless scream...

The fumbling picks up.
The sixth sense...

Poverty of thoughts
beats you endlessly...

Sitting at a funeral;
in ashes, you search...

The twin blasts and
lip-syncing was...

The camellias.
Catch the witch on the pole...

It was a severed finger
in an envelope...

You were half-crazy
saving little buds...

Would not wear
the seasoned face...

It was
a graceful exit...

After the organic death
of soaked breast...

There was no need of a sharp knife
in Calvaria...