Drop by drop, our great ovation was lost,
the outcome was not anticipated after all:
some will submerge in silent opulence no more.

But the false stream bed still rests in the tile roof of a sky,
I lie by its feet sometimes, although these days I do not fly

...yearning whispers as the needle stops by reflections perceived by unconscious treasures...

I eat the spoken words,
I savor reality and it tastes like playdough.

Because an inmense rammer of desires was stammered by your emotions
deceit was left to shine
hard as the floor just like your desire... ripping a cubicle out of my soul.

We were defied, we were burned.
Consciously you froze the Styx;
you made of the unspeakable a little less.