The innocence that silence wealths to the promptitude on witch the years feast upon a giveth man, from the fantasy crumbling inside his mouth, become the luring and softly clearing voice that chants with nameless words towards the coldness of a quailing sunken shade, the shade of pouring wounds and absent vexes; intoxicating like the fleshed roams of the waived spirit.

From the lays of somber sights, groans of eager gales divert the howling that the gentle servant cast upon the watery floods, sating their thirst of ignominy and trepidation, struggling at the reach of the drowsy glow.

Restrained and vagrant, detached from the yearning hunger of the ravenous hoax, as those last remaining of hypocrital lucidity, the identity of the thoughts are transcribed withing the weight of the riotous griefs.

And while the sound of those voices, in flee from the slight perception, corrupts abruptly the once forgotten intention, a calmly inflicted sensation reappear to remind the virtues and warmth of the endlessly beauty of every lone pronunciation, the one which could repeal the lacerous incantations that a giveth self could ignite from the visions held secretly inside the wounded carcass.

a.k