Impossible to save the balance with this bigot.
Still profiles bond
Two hands remain,
Two eyes I've embraced.
When confusion seems to have
Sweet Irony,
hits my tangled troubles, and frees this
blade
from the stranding
Is it so useless to talk
With these still shades?
Sometimes it
I've been swallowed by the plaything
Born through my brainful ashtray,
It
It's so improbable to find the light,
When clouds are rubbing
Analysis seems to be the better answer
But how can I
Follies wedged,
Deep,
Twisting brush against the warp,
This waltz agrees to armo
» More on Ephel Duath