Crossroads of the Damned.
Bones are the foundation of which display dead.
Without a drop.
My mind is filled by blood.
Tears of the current sickness.
Tormented torrents which flow rivers into estuaries of sadness.
Serial colors disappears where the horizon meets the fake shadows.
What shades a tree when the leaves are dead.
What feeds the roots when the soil is gone.
Cascading movements filters landscapes of sorrow into visionaries.
Projecting my sight to echo the love at war into a frenzy of hate.
Saying wonderful crators of words to harm the senseless.
Saying the best to destroy what remains left of the rest.
Saying far too much.
When there is nothing to say.