I was in the journey,
The road never taken
Dissolving regrets,
Finding myself in
The sorrow and knowing
A path less known
Through the glory of suffering.....

In the desolation
Hope stayed in a box,
In the different he became
The crescent tender
In a straight hell:
And then the nocturnal
Came and took him to
The poem of future prisons
And the Dedpoet became
A violent misconception.

Sleep nocturne:
The poet lay the man down,
And the poet will never know peace,
Because peace was disturbed.
And Dedpoet became a silence
In the desolation,
Wandering, wanted.....
On the run
And his poems numbered.