In the land of fortune and misdeeds, redemption was the art of innocence
Wicked windows, crystalized elegance forsworn disfigured dismemberment
Shallow dampenings evoked wretched whispers from wanton waves

Whitened waters, I saw myself starting again
Staring at gasoline reflections and dusty mirrors, I found
A hot pot of coffee brewing in the evening sun
The taste of grounds paired with the taste of ground

Writhered writers, jabbed pencils in pale forearm skin
Discomfort inserts within patterned frolic horrors
Glowing red, tomato paste from cumulated bloody blisters
Phantasmic fascination with the taste of our own innards

Projecting writs, of mandamus a murderous moon
The color of blood is so dark in the evening so soon
Blue skies, white clouds, melting in colorless rain
Droplets from heaven drip from ocherous rusty pains

Reckless fury, how wool howls against windy meadows
Retired fuchsia faded in faceless city sidewalks
Vitality earned and forgotten in its rightful place
Remembered patterns, plaid with a touch of summer

Some hurt, reticent entry to a regal palace garden
Some sublime, Eden is a place best left forgotten