The scenarios pass with so much gasps,

Memories ragged with dark cracks,

The blue traces through their thin hollows,

Filling them with blazing sorrow,

A few times I stumbled and fell,

Hugged by the wretched hands of hell,

My mind darted with sinister means,

To get out of the pestilence's gleams,

But I found my pen in a case,

I drew to it with my papers on display,

While the crowds pushed to the movies for comfort,

I remained in the quiet raft that henceforth,

Became a cope to hurtling pains,

That seared me with their crazed stains,

The inky letters twisted and grew,

Each clearer than the last tune's truth,

The tapestries of words flowed out of my pen,

Wiggling like the dance of a mother hen,

Tales were birthed in...