In the vise for the nice;
Weather is bland.
Cooled coarse stone
pressed to my hand.
Freedom is up -
Sky strives straight,
away from the ground
of love and hate.
Minimal magic
imbued in the clouds.
Tiny perfection
behind silk shrouds.
Dark is the deep.
How far can one fall?
Echoing through caverns;
A white dove\'s call.
Hungry hence
for hedonistic desire -
not sated nor quenched
by becoming higher.
Which is superior
I can\'t decide;
To live in desiccation,
or blissful suicide?