The crisis,
a distinctive nothing...

Choice was washing the guilt
or keeping mind shut...

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

Removing the husk
I want you to find the grain...

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

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

A stand-off between grass and moon
marginalized the perfume of night...

Night melts into tears,
day sums up the pain...

A perpetual war between
frame and content feeds...

Joining the names,
a nameless melancholia crosses a borderland...

The matrix drinks the words,
in the anonymity of opaque meanings...

Your truth always happened at wrong time
You were guilty of telling lies to death...