Prospects devoid of mobility.
Feeling just like a glass iconographer
Deprived of any vision
Indulging myself in this mourning flux
inside of me
I am rubbing incence down to powder
In a smoky hourglass
Forgotten by some betrayed bride-to-be.
On the other side of endlessness
Turned down by time,
Begging for love,
Come back for me.