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Clad in black and late for the wake With the propellers in the airyard twirling You lay a dried bouquet in close by the cold face The rester looks up under you. Because it's apparent you consider them the only one in the room . Strike off the blinders from thine eyes. How small does the dove feel after all? A comic strip stripped of it's illustrations. A grandiose work of literature missing the ink from it's pages. Autism grows a hole so anomalous. In the ditch in my stomach where the seeds of aphagia were sown. Scissor blades stay at a chill. Long after they're removed from the flesh housing the veins of pills. What makes me want to shake out a portion. Off the hiding spaces so secret, overgrown? Don't damn the madness surrounding the myth. Because I am the mound it's insects have built. And while it's said that elephants never forget, Insects cannot be erased. From Letras Mania