the devil is sad behind his mask of laughter
he looks to you from behind bills bent in the middle
like the ocean of fear that foregoes a catastrophe;
i once did know that earth has limits and now have blinded all sides
all streams of conscience broken down to heratic misleading
gestures caught on canvas, be it even cloth to dress us in colours
that remind visitors of our decay. it bares no sign of animal touch
and yet the stench prevails, the torride mountains of exctasy
prevailed in dust, just so that the eyes can't take any movement; or light.
from behind the make-up silver platter the devil looks upon beauty and makes it his
to own like a bent note. no riddicule is enough for you to fall even more
and no memories sufficient to make the past become present and the clouds' purple grey
witness remorse in a strange and new form, one that acts like a drill onto rock hard grief.