Silence, this is what I possess.
Perfect praise of my pending ego,
star set in motion
by pathetic blasts.
Neglected spirit,
untouched by the tepid
and deafening material.
Thin sound variation
feeling dizzy in its distorted mirage.
It’s an indigo chronic lament
the ravenous anarchy
of my existence,
utterly cohesive so far
to the paroxysm of silence.