They have qualifications of compensations that prove ineffectual in the meaning of speech
Like the false prophets who preach then hide in explanation preferring the faces of boys steal my name
Mothers hold their children to their *******, purple smoke fills the air while other peoples’ appetites are eaten
The most frightful realisation of ambiguity presents itself in a waltz of hesitation
I hear the whispers of soft syrup coloured skin, of long polished black hair, of complexions
A pestilential silence that reaches and grips from corpse strewn streets creates a gentle but pure indolence
Now You are no longer where I can find my presence.