It can be said that in the cradle of night, death sings, swaying my heart, a tune played by a father. It was a dream, and its vision caused me to lie down, as if in the night: “Sleep now, dear child, sleep with eyes like moons.”
We are shadows, and our garden is in full bloom.
Start to finish, a woeful turn. It is soil-soft, cold to the touch— the skin where laughter is thin. A dance of broken people, a devil in a face. Life after life is a sewing in the ripping apart.
For what we care, your life is but a game that nobody knows even exists— a mere pinprick in the vast darkness of space. Keep it lit, watch it flicker, watch it spark. But alas, this is a woeful lark of a man. With every breath, I stand back in my position.
For what we care, your life is but a game that nobody knows even exists— a mere pinprick in the vast darkness of space. Keep it lit, watch it flicker, watch it spark. But alas, this is ...
