Calling in the wasteland of desire on wings of celibacy. Swept onto the shores of senseless longing Hoping for a descriptive critic. Whispering hope, O how welcome Thy voice. Those wings creating a breeze when everything around me is still. Bereavement is death.
Victimization is death.
We shall gather at the river where bright angel feet have trod. Running in red shoes Feeling the breeze the body creates moving through the humidity. I am running in red shoes. Fainting in the open sewers that run right along beside you. Dredge out death.