Atrophying, I reach to your mouth:

A rusted scythe.

It awards no pleasures,

No softness for me, ma.

Where are the wrenching

Snipers and snatchers, awaiting,

For me. Me? Its their thorns are made of orchids, ma,

It must be. Oh,

I hear a scraping inside

My ears. The neighbours are

Looking. No, everythings great, its just

My mouth channel is spilling the

Blacky ooze, sorry, I

Cant breathe.