Going to shake my inner world.
Inconsolable is the loss
of faithful truth.

Echo of past comes between the knockings,
some one shoves a semblance of a riot,
death is not a ceremony any more.

Slowly, dark breast of night
will feed the moon.
Air will kiss the lips of fire
and loneliness will take over the heart.

Not sure of the pattern, and my existence
first I must look beyond the self
and find out the forbidden belief.
I think I don’t trust myself.

From the smouldering psyche
the muse always runs out
falling between vision and confusion.
Sweet ephemeral strife
always in toe.