In asci we stand like
spores in a floating pain
in trepidation of something
evil.

It was a lily pond.
The water brings a dead city
on lotus leaves. I will
become crazy for small deviations.

The body bags are full of
remains. You know everything
before hand, from alphabet
to full script.

In my own way I will
decipher the stream of
death’s language. A part
of your face floats nearby.

The uncollected legs were
searching the flame of sorrow
without digging a hole.