Coming near the incarnation of an
unknown, sunflower seeds were cracking.

Trickling down the cleavage of a tormentor
reaching near the edge of poetry.

I ask you to clamp my name, the
gash on the book was bleeding.

Was it discretion of night to decorate
a battered and abused body of a doll?

Naked you cry on the shoulder of the moon.
This was my prophecy, this is my fate.