Later in some pictures of dead roads, stories had been told;
wonder how big are the woods where wolfs hide from hunters, they just try to stay few more seconds to find themselves, so it begins their sweat in search for the so called spot inside our lack.
Rain blinds the way to my place, the cave, my precious,
has been ripped just for fun, for some pleasure he finds in fucking others sacred pertains in spite.
While I used to bleed it drowned itself with the morning,
in its shine I could barely touch skies.
Walk seven miles to regret feelings, I know my locations…
The spine, it caught my wing, I do feel sorry for the
view I was missing. Air came to the nose of those who were
breathing at the time, maybe I was already smothered up
there, tired by the smells it spelled but realized until slipped.
Today, another line in the page to the anthology life
easily became, it is usual to lose steps, fake smiles, pretend
of living when you are already buried.
Dropped death takes its ways to perdition, dried mouths can not speak to salvation, it is far beyond where your eyes can encompass though you do not fall yet, the great, my Lord hasn’t fallen.
Follow the grass, green skies, the bats will get your vision but
sound still your side. Motions from past times helps to stand journeys, long it will make your own fate my precious.
Hollow, it will start to dark night, after half way, another day
has gone. Now it stops. I expect so much from tomorrow that today I already feel disdained.