discernment

 
Torn rainbows, disadvantageous, torn-off remnants, slipped shadows quiver in the deserted yard of alleys. The soul of a whore is a bean or a worn-out clothespin, which teaches you to endure and survive at any cost. He beats here and there on his pitiful life fiber, and like a dying comet from Alamus, he is buttoned up to the chin in nudity at the same time, and undresses, as his playful mood takes him.

His life: steaming like a swamp kneaded into a desert. His scars torn to the bone are almost always preserved for himself by the aging Time. The stealthily approaching crypt minute becomes a lonely, barren lunar landscape; he strips himself, humiliates himself in a thousand ways.

Schizophrenic mirrors stand in the throne room of his lake-wide dreams, while lost souls yawn among themselves. The haunting midnight watches the secret revelation even more vehemently, but it can be traced back to the scratched mask of Semmi's face. "If he even dares to dream, the cheater-leech living long does not remember, sooner or later he will forget everything."

The soul born in the onion skin deliberately pushes away the name-calling and babbling words. There will always be faces and bodies born in backlight, whose changing forms are preserved in the pupils of the seeing eyes. Why is it that an ice-cold shudder runs from the labyrinth of brains to the tamed molecule of instincts.

An immobile gliding memory, an insidious web of lies of an action that has taken place can be projected onto it unnoticed, until finally everything slips away. Adopted loyalty often runs away when faced with overwhelming temptation. Babylon's accursed sin can no longer be expunged by weedy kuffars. The soul always toils ceaselessly on its aching self-praise.

Insidious consequences lead everywhere, if we betray ourselves, what remains of our soul?!