Special, he was.
The only one who never enjoyed the words,
my only one he was.
...
The crows are hunting
a little white cat,
right above your head.
I see you looking
...
Cold and stony streets,
broad and scary woods,
the festival has begun
in the name of the Baroque city.
...
She goes to bed to die,
but she wakes up blind.
They imitate her eyes,
but can't activate her mind.
...
The black shadow in our home,
a man we all wanted dead,
someone you are supposed to love,
a monster by the name of dad.
...
I don't belong to you.
Not now, not then, not ever.
I don't care for you,
and it will stay that way forever.
...
This Is Not A Murder
There was a wine
on the table,
There were people
on the bench.
There was a smile
on their faces,
There was a love
in the air.
There was a past
in her heart,
There was a future,
in his mind.
There were buses
in the streets,
There was her
with him again.
There was a bed,
in old attic.
There were them,
in the sheets.
There was a morning,
on the window.
There was a blood,
on his hands.