Taste it, feel it
The bed is made
Music is playing
The people are late.
The scent of flower decaying,
The rotten rat in the garden.
A dead pulled out of a lake,
The smell of dried blood in your bed.
The rhythm built it up
Birds see the numbers we draw.
A relatively unknown sound,
Holding the key of life beyond.
They don’t pray when I’m not there
A circle of life doesn’t stop for the late.
In a vision or a flash what may it be?!
The turn is gone. I go to a church to pray.