Poetry

To whom thou may hopeto speak
and let them hear, those thou seek.

Your imprints may layon broken glasses
but not words that diminish always.

Your immortal souldiscerns all before
the melody of violins was thru to pure.

With hands thou beholdvanes of agony,
suffice all the desires, it shall be so dreary.

In the imminent wheregray mists lay
the voices thou perceive and wings away-

_are nothing but yourown shaped delusions!
Yet, ye all felt a scar within a drip of passions.

Ye all shalt be atthrones with aged flame
burning the vision ye grasp and name.
 
-Nr.