I come from hell a naked Amoeba to enter a cell called flesh it is my tomb with some growing room through the eyes of my muse and the laudanum fumes pale as pewter eyes of dark's covenant the veil is rent I see her true my tendrils corrupt the heathen woman who is rightly adorned with vanity with a wondrous breath of death, I yearn turning the screw entombed exhaling a scent of eternal on the epiphany grail sickened grief...

Buy me a song of tomorrow holding hands with memories listening to the winds in the silence of a rainbow before the breath of dawn kisses the dew on your lips a shadow of my beloved as time becomes, another tomorrow.

In comes the wind and Illuminati touching my skin sleeping naked in unadorned metaphors echoing serenity no time for gauchos or cowboys on the Pampas escaping the whispers of makers and takers and near-illiterate listening to the sounds as the coffee drips embracing my reincarnation in comes the wind and Illuminati.

Who is adoring and who is not assuming life is paper mache and death is the final echo, listening to the rainfall. But life is busy, yet, we need more and cannot pass up hope, keeping score. There has to be a reason for a recurring voice and temptations, if not a spoof. When sleepers fail to open their eyes and dreams have come to a demise, who is adoring and who is not, assuming life is paper mache.

Whispering God's, day ago prayers, if I could only touch your face without leaving fingerprints, for death is a naked shadow without layers of clothes, in old photographs, from your body to my mind in life's curiosity and curios, of our love's fancy serendipity when we laughed and cried, singing the alphabet, in the alpines, now soft-spoken in a desk locket

Fading from withered leaves in silence dies the dreams leaving a void, haunting, long past the shadow on the day-old bread but there is no beast beneath the bed, just devils in my head and the Cheshire cat, whispering, strike one from the bones of my past with the chains of sorrow perhaps a guilty tomorrow, clinging to the sermon of a false soulful hour, in my mind's cold abbey listening to the dead it must have been a cl...