Zeboim

Scars and paths towards flesh
nails in the sky forming sunrises
as the most sincere cloud of arrival
disappears,
only empty spaces remain
construction of movements once thought as "pure"

Choosing to live before you die,
and never mentioning the fact that,
once, you chose belief over satisfaction,
inside a matter of regret,
when everything around floats,
in the middle of nowhere.

Just.
Keep on.
Shouting.
Instead.
Of.
Remaining.
Pure.
In.
The face.
Of a sterile clutch.

Forming your will
to experience.