State of fugue, seek in this smoke of poisoning lungs
reading articles and books, offering function to this numb
inside the voids of my mind into this woods.

State of fugue, alone in forest, this wooden solace
where no human shape can be detected, a mind confined while my will is taken. Again smoking as a captive of a defying belief of failing or as a container of tears escaping.

State of fugue, is the maintenance of vice and virtue, but also of poor choices, hitherto we seek something and in oblivion we keep running into solitude and animal noises

State of fugue can be also an invented peace, while outside we pleased ourselves with more than electricity, the solitude of reality where no destructive humanity in present seeks.

From the bottom of the stage
lies the little oldest dream, she
with a magnificent imaginary
friends as roles of this endless play

The old self she made, the actress
without the lines, the madness and blind
eyes reading the parts they once gave

Still growing in this infinite child's play
wondering if the wounds in backstage could
ever be noticed or healed as they scream

Faith remains in: a present of silence, hidden
without disguises, vanishing rapidly away,
in the future they may written another suicidal
coward, vanishing in the hour of another dreadful May

All along those years of secret pain in flowers still
surrounded by fake plastic horrors in secret views, self indulgence among old pills vanishing in this mad's towers

The future seems unclear, in the back of her fears still remains the  running, but it is living while rambling with no roots to clear? To a newer self is wished nothing but courage, a belong fortress where no hollow lurks near.

All the weight of the world
Falls upon the youth and words
Shattered as memories of lost
Fading like drops of rain in boose

Youngest mirrors through the streets
Hunting for sick promises of liberty
Lie upon a hunger for rumors
forgetting simple senses of humans

A time of redeem machinery
Lost throughout a thirsty misery
where nothing is real, but shared
for twisted proposits of despair

(uni-verse-lyra)

Not a patriot or an immigrant
anything in any land could be
more than this weak accident
of eternal unbelonging rent
not a sentence meaning free

Sickness surrounds feelings
A pill prescribed to oblivion
women carrying the season
along with the infinite silk
disguising a magnetic ion
as a void of poisoned milk

All these years I ramble
No harm I brought, still
the worms hidden trample
as an infinite fogged hill
following a shadow phantom

Planes of a trip
over again in deep
thoughts of a sickest
road I lost and find
where this echoes
through my mind
kept me once again
weak