Rotting flesh bathes under the sun's unrelenting waves

Our prey has felt the reapers touch
repossessing its soul
so we may harvest the remains

The scents invade our nostrils
luring us into a state of blissful hunger

We dive
We feast
We leave none to waste

I went back
But, my mind wandered
Off to seek a haven
Where this pieces would fit

Those were the only days
Where I was a statue
And not a godforsaken flesh
In a straitjacket

Parents,
Are the place where you go
As a storm coming in
Heading your way
Wreaking you over,
Bashing your reality,
Being an acid in your little lemon life,
They are the white limbo
You heart wants to go
Are not they?

I am at the place
Where I gauge the years to empty
Where it is dark
Where it is white
Where no roses grow
Where no crows caw
Where my heart vacant,
A kenopsia
(Turning the page)
(I turn the page)

What is home?

His innovative drives
- passionate, natural man.
The knotted grains of his life,
bringing pleasure and distress,
making a disorderly mess.

Departed, is he forgiven?
Some refuse to judge. But what
of those whose lives were riven,
infatuation driven.

Lives passed by with many sighs.
Judged his life ignored his life, ignored his work,
leaving us unopened eyes
on mystic crow, tortured lines,
raw nerves, coded signs

one silent crow
flying near the sun
to get noticed