The crisis, a distinctive nothing, swaps the dignity with blood.
The world hogs around your palatial words.
The throb drips from your temples.
Hate or love it, the barren prelude looms large.
I am going for a drift.
It comes back again and again
the debris of dream of circling wolves.
The crisp moon outlines the contours of hills.
I fight with a stiff translation of a truth.
Deep rituals will always hound.
I escape from my body, unfreeze my ego.
The stars did not help. The space widened between doors.
Illusions outlined the shadows of dead years.
Must we praise the seeping poision in our bones?
No God had been spared, the spring was mauled by prowling summer.