Drenching the dull windowsills,
Washing down the sleepy town,
As greasy and queasy it feels.
Earth is crying down,
Or it’s just her drool,
Beyond the reality bound,
I don’t see beauty anymore.
Beauty is that vulture,
Who took me to bed for you,
Quickly vanished in your capture,
Like on lava a drop of dew.
Don’t pretend you feel the same way,
Being decadent is better in alone,
Nothing more in me left to lose in sway,
Don’t say you hear memories’ groan.