Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Words we speak are just silent songs
With melody-guns, pulling and hugging their triggers
they've been empty for eternity.

We always say and listen to the voice of death
So monotone, so different at the same time, a infinite waterfall.
Made of dirt, trash, diamonds and gold.

A earwax-string hanging its talented parent, letting it squirm and suffocate and die.
Making the decaying neck its home-tree,
A pale tree with red, black, blue and purple stained leafs,
Preparing to build a bony nest with the branches of putrefaction.