In a machine of culture, the grind of meat is soothing
As sounds of nothing leave the room before you enter
Anticipation, preparation, emotional starvation center
Ghosts sleep inside a mind, empty hearts are lamented
With no living dreams inside, a terror has an epicenter
Lives lived are past, a mind lost, behold the pretender
Seeking anew, a face and heart, once embraces the lie
“True genius shudders at incompleteness —imperfection— and usually prefers
silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.”
Edgar Allan Poe
