Without Answers

What will become of his dead words,
no one knows,
from his gutter-shaped there comes the worm of his soul,
which gnaws constantly at it,
making it look human.
What will become of his eyes?
no one knows,
tears concealing ill-meant deeds will not stop flowing of his dead eyes,
which have spoken of his mind and soul rotting slowly in a estate of grandeur.
What will become of his embrace?
no one knows,
out of his embrace comes coldness disguised in warmth,
seducing, luring those with false benevolence

His words dead are as dead are the dead
His soul is consumed by maggots
and from his embrace borns the putrid of his own self

What will become of his smile?
no one knows
yellow rotten teeth showing fake compassion,
and a stench fed upon his hideous self,
which pervades his frame, the perfect grimace on his face
What will become of his heart?
No one knows
his rigid faeces-composed-atrophied muscle,
which palpitates deplorably, a dwelling for self-loathing,
which he replaces for self-pity,
becoming the sewer of his self-contempt

His words dead are
His embrace dies away
He is the maggot of his own self

RQ
Moscow
11/6/2010