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.