556.
Empty, empty void.
Man-made viruses of our
Silences. I’ll sleep
557.
Alone, I feel aches
In each bone turning to stone.
My gums turned to eels,
558.
A trunk from my nose.
Yet where I misread karma,
Coincidence kills.
556.
Empty, empty void.
Man-made viruses of our
Silences. I’ll sleep
557.
Alone, I feel aches
In each bone turning to stone.
My gums turned to eels,
558.
A trunk from my nose.
Yet where I misread karma,
Coincidence kills.
