So here I am. All broken up.
The minutes which made hours and on just flashed away.
I tried that thought to go away but I'm always aware of it.
Everyone who's here seeks for consolation, made God in case
of extricating himself of wreckages. Looks like God was
exerted by men's agony, mine anguish.
Reality desolates my imagination and I know I'll be left
enduring atrocity of my own little town, who had no one
found or ever will but me.
"The blessed are the broken ones", says my wage and I always
could hear the rattles of my drizzle in that old little
town. The clumsy burden would appear squeakly and I'll
undergo the sense of alienated limps of the ambience and
duly dilapidate my view.
Welcome the centery of suppress and rotten suffocation.
Grieve over new and fresh despondency. I'm withering and
turn into monument. I blaze into scraps, into sleep, eyelet.