Where she’s coming from are dusty patterns,
Reconstructed veins or reconstructed matters,
The mapping of scars to suitable places,
On a downward spiral of lucid disgraces…

Of places she’s going it’s no one’s mistake,
For we all trod on paths that seem fake,
The blacken the thought, the higher the walls,
She’s just sustaining her unbreakable fall…

And cradling along a thought she’s been humming,
The lonesome journey she’s forgotten mourning…
A thought of salvation, a bud that’s ill-fated,
That breeds at its core the destruction awaited…