LAST CYCLE © 2008
The crusade without return, the broken heart,
Made a monster without a horn, in a contained lament.
The drooling lip, of bitter and cold saliva,
That slides away, in a trail of agony.
Falling into the book, the word is crushed,
It is sad, it complains, in a fading scream.
It asks the feeling for a fierce argument,
But does not understand that the mud is its voice.
The grease of opulence, silent bed,
Where the weight of the soul becomes viscous.
In silence it is gained, but at what cost in the end?
If what remains is mud, the unequal end.