You, the Beholder. Concerning images of injured candles. Cherishing streams of binding pulse. Diving in red ashes. Crawling among the cutters of arisen rains. Flying in the lightbulb, filled with viscous lead. Veiled by thousands of resonant leaves. Glazed by gunpowder and lanterns
You, the bearer of dust, the prescription of boiling mercury, the messenger of branches and sands, the harbringer of silver vileness.
Tell me, what you will do, when we see your face, locked in permafrost of tile walls, when we hear your steps after screams of silence in orphanages. Show me, how you will slide underneath the swamps, dressed in nothing, but a scorn. Show me, where you will hide, when we recognize your fingers in the braid of gravel. Explain me, how you will run through the torn greed, when we comprehend your anxiety, buried inside frankness of wooden owls. Tell me, what you will do, you, the Beholder.