Lost in the hay of turmoil 
like an abashed voice 
beneath the fences of darkness and a foil 
there was never a reasonable choice. 

Eulogistic, the end of a sad story. 
Given as a sentence of death. 
Ironic and gleeful, the empty patrimony. 
Like a pack of wolves tied to the edge. 

But never falling. 
Never sketching 
a bowl of manikins. 
Always a folklore beyond the marshes. 
Evading the magnitude of boring dreams. 

Futile amenity, 
gliding through the comfort's scene. 
Have a pleasure with the voice 
of the faceless guinea pigs. 

Test the brakes 
and the equities. 
Film the grains of spotless reeks. 
Failing objectively in screens. 
Where the prunes are like lakes obscene.