It’s
outpouring again,
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.
