You thought you could find a surface to hold your portraits,
But like asking the fog to hold a nail, you were unable to exhibit the violence of what was most precious to you.
Suddenly the wing span of disaster is what matters emanating from the heart,
And what to do with the beauty of folly and combustion.

You are certain you will have to pay with the exact change of your demise.
Till then blood in the veins and relish of trajectory.

A scaffolding of seagulls surrenders up into a fierce summoning of moonlight,
You are too much like that,
And glad for it

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