The sun executes
a will of perpetuation.
The dawn diminishes my shadow
on the architecture.
The ruddy river of yesterday's hope,
gushes out from my nose today.
A weak link in the cause of the world,
I sit afar. Last in the lines.
Moral inertia keeps me
in the grey. Me, it defines.
My friend of yore, drives a
big piece of metal. Bottled wines.
When the line inches,
ignorant of the imminent slaughter,
I don't move, I don't budge.
The degenerate swines.
I wish away the day for the night.
I wish for the arrival of my solitary accomplices.
I wish the darkness to veil their faces.
I wish to wipe from my burlesque memory -
the springs of them, the autumns of me.
