A deprived and broken

dark and the wind mempesiang myself,
ridge to the room where he was also a disco,
added evening sets in, so a dead monument jungle

in Rubber, in Rubber to roar too cold

I clean up the room, inside of me when you come
and I can no longer release new story to you;
but now only the hands are moving out loud

and my own silence, stories and events go by frozen

Posted in: poetry