Twisted realities invade our eyes into
a realm which poets encounter the common disease, perceiving an empty silence
in their minds and inhaling disgust
in their own ambiance. A plague where vocals are muted and transferred
onto a page for understanding, stitching words into the palms
of a withered being.
Flesh becomes transparent, the blue ink
spreads into the nerves. The depths of a poets’ soul are
exposed, entering their dimmed spectrum of
their conscience. It knits harmonies to enlighten
the malevolent perception of others.
In the outermost parts of us, we grow flowers
that intertwine in our ribcage and fill us all with an
innermost happiness in a reality who live in
a cryptic deceit.