universaldeviant

There is a black spot in my mind suspended in the shadow of my last thought, upon the stem of the most distant flower that perpetually comes back in the pale night, even though I lean forward like a veil ascended to the stars which morning of which dream shall I wake up from my talents to confuse the light that uncovers me against my will? If I changed face I would not be anymore forbidden by metamorphosis to hide upon myself, like a grain in a corner ice in the center of silence