The way back it worked
the pretention,
the parthenogenesis.
Now we are lying
without any affair, in self-deception.
The belief has no walls.
The truth inside and the truth outside –
there is no placenta in between,
foetus dies in the womb.
Unpleading, immaculate, zen
bleeds in chips.
My god is lying dead.
My butterflies have gone,
perched on moon
I am looking for stars.