A coma accompanied my body for this century,
Backstage the heart clicked like a clock.
This century my girls will age unequally
For they have died, and they have died.
Destruction counted least in the expedition of my soulfulness,
A columnist wrote his burden of me and my history.
This causes to age the readers of the newsperson
Writing the stories of conjecture.
A coma has broken off from me, from me,
So that the century’s kip resides no longer in my head.