My lashes cast off a bitter spell;
my nails have bled – dripping with every
colorless sob,
when I brushed them through the sunlit clouds . . .
Where I was born under the rose bushes soil -- 
bathed and fed by the doomed owls -- 
I slept like one of the wildlife.
And how much this warmth frightens me;
contrasted to my adrenaline's fondness of cool
stone night . . .
much like water: broken with ice,
with a surface that meditates,
warm-toned and tranquil;
underneath is a stillness that's
dark and coarse.