Wane is a shawl, i've stripped off
From the virulent heat.
Vain i've milled and crumbled
And poured into junket you'll eat.
Feast is a bait.
(I'm desirefully sanctite)
Feast is a bait–
Raged adverse hands
Gripped your neck ın lust of  suffocation

Polished mirror–
Nearby, just the wall divides
Bleak downswinging "nation"
Scrabing and crawling your hedge.
With malicious "regards",
Prominent vein,
Incinirate to ashes...by a cressels.
They are labourers
Who manure your ****** plains.
Polished mirror–
Bleeding river
Where your reflection is sublime
But decreasing, due to drought
(And dignity's profaned...)

Conscience dejects and impens,
Disables foul-souls to feast.
Dissapears in sudden–
Purified and peeled.
Cravings and ruinous temptations are rules,
Untill it's pestilent and boresome
And you beg for its rooting back
And returning.

Feast is a bait.
Admires hypocritical:
Human trade,
Quench of "Mature duration"
Truth gyrates from ear to ear– abruption.
Thats's how nobility cracks as a high-grade crystal,
But decayed grade.
Feast is a bait–
Raged adverse hands
Gripped your neck – one second to  suffocation.