My appetite of Being's backbone straightens up, living its own fiction
I stick to mine and rubbed it
Nothing to add
The organs are talking over together without me
The future, the future
The ravaged centerpiece dug up after the accidents
Without forcing the Runes' hand
Humble as can be under their obscure desire
I look after the slowness of my pandemonium
Auscultate myself, my own hearts of lead, but the hope, the hope
Is at stake a melody to write without any chorus
A monotonous chant hummed for ages
Left, left obstinately with no sound really known

June 2015