Days pass so fast beween those hills

the ones of suffering delt with skill

A heart not clensed from ill design

softer than silk, fresher than pines.

I write this thousenth letter with a mix

the juice of my oragans, stones and sticks.

So hang around if you feel alone,

and hear the letter leave the stone

and become bone from a bush.


Cast 'tween lands of firery ice

my body acts; I pay the price.

******* of a blueprint, my cardboard genes

still fail to smell a rotting dream.

The clean produce with an iron strength,

a deadly aurora of graveyard stench.

Between the rosebuds, black as soot

lies my ****-bush pushing roots.

Free to amend, from time itself;

Id then be able to cure my self.



Days do pass fast beween these hills

the ones of dementia, of feeling ill

A heart not yet ready to resign,

for there is hope in Valentine.