Yet, to be born,
Unleashed.
From unconscious freedom,
the debt of silence,
Followed by pretentious dark, nicely sliced abyss.


Yet, to be.
Reaching out my last scream of silence.
Calling for words so sad and away from me.
Barely visible, trough dim smoke of agony.



Has yet come already?..Please!
Delusions are painful,
and the abyss in coffee brings out the taste of inner fear
and yet not felt claustrophobia.