Although eleven chimes meant not midnight,
That vision did, for me, a lifetime, My Delight.
So it was not just thirty-first the last one,
But the startup of my nightmare,
Collapse of a dream, of our dream.
Everything looked perfect, redeemed,
But a fever has taken me suddenly,
So that I could throw up this heart pump
And scatter this looking glass of my iris,
Desire of ice-cream, more ice-cream.
By these arrhythmic pulses and verses,
I want to leave this pain all aside;
To create a scape-thru by the tide
From that red scented sheet
While I scream, while I scream.
(Ebrael Shaddai, November 1st 2014, 09:20 p.m., BRT)