The methods with which we synchronise our minds revolve around and expanding
We sit and speak of a certain earthy melancholia that swirls like silver smoke
and falls throug the
incandescent air. As the evening creeps in and a glow swims through the
dissolving patterns of our
thoughts, a lonely sound could be heard on the threshold of momentary shadows
I am the voice of melancholy that gathers your stars and burns them at your
the quiver that slides through your dreams to deposit leaden despair
The morning drops slowly by our sides we pause to breath the scent of decay.
Revolving patterns slip their laconic focus through the cracks we ar lost.