But I have lost
my
touch under
these orchids which glimpse
the tale of
each star that fires against the
wrath
of a thousand martyrs,
whilst our glass of
grape juice called earth
is
flooded by the presence
of
celestial
caprices
that glimpse each
falling syllable into
a
cluster
of
golden dandelions
like
the garden of
heaven
wherein
the doors are open to
all who
treads the path of
those same martyrs
that
have succumbed to
the candescence
of the beyond, like
lobelia blue
flowers
which bloom
against the vision
of the tempest,
and collapse
against the murky waters
in which
many people
are drowning,
      to           end up
in            the embrace of        this spherical
             liquefaction       like the
                           conversion           of
a
                 dynasty         so sublime
      in
its      stupor,
                                  that
        the          globes
    look                 on            with  a
                         translucent
apparatus
                        so like
          those                   pterodactyl
that                    falls                          under
           the wrath of
this
                    T-rex
           in                   the archaic    museum       of
my       thoughts,
                               so       welcome
              to my
battlefield and-

this is the end.