The lovely eyes that survey time. Wanton in fortunes. Backed up smokes in restive chambers tempting expulsion.
Whilst to speak, lulled away to strange winds scraping against promising faces.
Just to live. Pleasured by mysterious veils blowing across light reversed rooms.
Filtered pulps settling. The clear light listening.
Streaks of woman illusion moving down rotted boulevards phasing out the stars that bind, used up links on a final revolution before blackened sands engulf a name.