Boiled stem

embodied lichen

growing under my skin.

Dreaming of heat

and sun withered weathers

flying from the cold

in glue pasted feathers.

I found the core

of saddened flow

the rain of my rivers

that turn from red to blue.

Always carrying a stone

even in hanging cliffs

everywhere that drones

as hangover spheres that once were riffs.

Why is the sad song flowing

as it was myself?

Who killed the muse?

Who was the founding father

of violent abuse?

Who gave them shelter and old sweaters?

Who drained the cold of forsaken labour workers?

Where is my beer?

Why are there berries in the garden?

Who commenced the yihad against protocinycall preachers?

Who lifted the sun for us?

And why do we rest in shade?

Tell me why,

its laid

as a kidney stone

under my skin.

Tell me why,

we can't ascend

without heating laughter

right into the happiness cloud.