How wearing the patience of vultures is
in the desert of people's eyes...

We are Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot,
the “Waiting for the Anti-Christ” deluxe...

Like waves
that retreat and climb...

Why don’t you embrace me as me,
as who I am...

These weapons are made
with bad intents otherwise...

Was it always this way,
or just my oblivion was the sleigh...

I love and you leave
and then I leave, and you love...

The bird,
an agitation...

First you were just an itching indentation
and I was a swollen pain...

Everything is so awful
and bad...

Silver bullet kills
the wolf in us, silver moon...

Are the trees just acting out their loneliness,
their separation from the fire...