I see two people murdering their souls with their impalpable eyes,
and that’s heaven’s way to sell poems, a symphonic randevu, a quest of sex.
They ain’t gonna die if they don’t pour booze inside this star oozing existence,
It’s as the great man once slept with the sultry death.
Standing on the edge of this cliff if you see whores and ruthless pens and filthy serenity,
You are as alive as a smokey fountain and a doubtful dog.
A woman with tranquil lips and gravitation less breasts are always a autistic sight to behold before the spiritual sigh.