Sitting beneath a coal's sky, black moon enlighten some fossil clouds.
Schemas of angels upon; drawing of stanzas and unspoken words.
Digging holes with pencils amid my skull, for I shall finish this portrayal.

Drafted a lighthouse upon this burgeons grey cliff, for the lost birds.
Sketching pure virgins with a pornographic smile, a burning port grins behind.
Breaking another charcoal, cementing spotted papers,
Noting ma mort with capital letters, my hairless paintbrush cries.

Leper beggar nearly stands, as breathless schemas watched my hands
Such as nun's cleavage, he pulled the leash…
Barking pencils against the lime, a self portrait of a cripple one.
Staring at the so-called-canvas, staring at my sordid mirror…