Careless foreboding

  
Shrinking itches the foolish left soul, While the age that has passed brightens again. A voice that seems innocent screams through a palpable wave of silence, to perchance be buried forever. A romantic vampire hair-bite, a sweet fruit-taste of kisses - all before and behind, the invisible follows its victims into the desolate absence of spheres.

In the dark, in the unknown, the homo sapiens juveniles jog their thirty-two teeth. They blackmailed themselves further by their delusive emotions, when they stared into the mirror and spoke self-congratulatory hymns to their narcissistic images.

There should be a fitting account of many, many accumulated, enriched, tiny, tiny sufferings: inarticulate, gaping movements of the mouth to regurgitate primeval instinct-titles. And though our senses may naturally blossom, even the vain, conceited boasts of the frail body, to pluck the petals of invisible roses is unlawful if the sentient soul within is crushed.

A melody almost hushed to silence was once written in love's glowing, misty holy eyes. The same belated, deliberately omitted courtship: "Could she be the one?" - Waiting yet boldly, suspiciously, the days are pregnant with tears, bearing another endless-less pain. Even all the truth of closed eyes is unable to express the tiny, cosmic pleas of the Universe for someone - who is a treasure in himself.

The neck and hangman's rope of careless foreboding is somehow cut sooner than it should be. On the smuggled lips of the vulgar world All profiteering, petty swindlers bow and bow.