I perished, 
before the gale of a grand scheme
never to tame a pale win
never to direct an axis.

The morning settles,
as courtesy of a massive bliss
longing for a river's royal fluency
longing for a tale which subscribes the 
endearing need.

A lost aeon. 
A vital lucid dream.
A viral showdown.
Hanging from a sandy cliff.
It all matters if life is channeled through a responsive itch. 

I call the echo
to attend of my respective seeds
not fed with anger
like the thrall of its luminosity.

I scare the demon
to make him scale of a forbidden tree
not like a hamster
who's youth has come forth like a thief.

I wrote white letters
which drove me to my castle's dreams.

With a lost aeon next to my shadow's borderline.
Hopeful in frail frames.
Seductive to the flare's morass.
I am dying off the torment,
though my last year is drowning dreadfully near.
I am the deed that went tarnish
I am the paradoxical margin of it.
I was the slave who was punished.
beneath the head of an aimless steam.