Atlas of Ariel

No I guess I do not.

Give me the dew that flies

Across the most terrible of winds

I feel the burden of brutal sacrifice

Of unnamed ancestors, they live in me

Suicidal, at one with the drive

To delve too deeply into the forbidden

To touch too frequently, the taboo

Give me the apex of neuroticism

I do not know what is good for me

I simply concentrate in the concentration

Of my root faculties, my obituary

It shall be empty of names of loved ones

I will likely outlive the few which I have made

The friends I keep in my mind, we no longer speak

Give me the child’s cry that melts these walls

And I will have an aim, a life of better intentions.