Wake and hear the flames of discipline, to reclaim the hand, the craft of oblivion. To drink the living womb, born to live off this death. The grief of ancient skies, an open space to contemplate these things. In-between consciousness and death, an opaque hue of differentiation subsists, as tears burn through blood shot eyes. To recall her name, as it is rooted in your being.
Words taken at random from various poems with my own.
Image by: Oystein Sture Aspelund