One born

Two horns,

Cornucopia and poison.

Alive, sits there, eating fish

Takes a bag from under the fake wintergreen.

Time traces everything they touch

The Sun lies defeated.

There is no moon in the sky.

Void. I will pick a shovel

And dig a hole to bury old me.

Burn and let worthless intentions

and aura of death fly away.

Dig a hole and bury old me in the rain.

Save the skull.

From the Saturday to Sunday

On Wednesday night.