Days are one by one the same: drudgery and turmoil, pain and anguish, worry and concern.
White-hot pavement scores the air with deformed breath, a wisp of illusion raised in waves that bend and distort the world.
Havoc cries from lonely breasts pierced by living daggers.
And I weep.
What comes in these shadows that torment? What anguish must I suffer beneath this weight?
Oh, how she sings to me, her voice a siren upon the wind, a dagger opening old wounds as easily as it draws new ones made of flesh.
Call to me, dearest, for your voice paints life’s picture that too many ignore.