Roasted, salted

Ducks quacking in delicious pain.

Hot steams rise as cold slabs

merge into forlorn figures waiting

By the stops of tomorrow, shaped by 

The wind, sand and melancholy

of the dried tears of the insane.

I wait for my daily stutter. 

Nails cracked, 

knees bent,

she's dressed in a cracked armor.

Passion is the cruel curse of gods, the victors of the meek.