I find myself hidden silent in my dark conscience wonder.
I often question its solemnity.
Incoherent to a message informed,
I contemplate a new beginning . . .
Wanting a comrade to understand the outside within, I cannot obtain.
Alone by myself, I yearn for a voice.
My integrity lost, my ego burned, at an impossible distant pleasure, I create images for my diabolical horror. So much hate, too much reason. So little understandings, too much indifference, so eager to change, too much disappointment for a lost cause . . ., I am irrelevant in this life I cannot mend.
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