Wreckage of the Melancholy

Snatch away your comfort 

The night adores you
Pack it in a private can,

And the grey of the morn

Offers me a otherworldly horizon

The day trudges on, imaginary, tepid,
Everything brings a threat, her guest.
A lady beyond the hexapod of senses
A fiery flame dances through -

Her raven hair hanging in jest 

An abyss in the heart of the little heaven 

A sunset garden
Embedded in an embraced onomatopoeia 

All dressed in mist.