I dip my finger's tip. And taste, the skin to
see, the red glow of nothing: but it all goes
and leaves a dove's lung. Dead for air.
I laughed not, at the impurities of yesterday
I'm a younger, left, invalidated by death.
To come, must sell, the prize of pleasure for
Another, change. In-asmuch as I need
personify my needs tonight. Under the...
moon's glow. A tomb has called.