This isn’t my language, it is my sin…
For I can’t complete what I begin…
The flight of doom takes a plunge…
A lighter gloom amidst the grunge…
A sober light, a woman’s cry…
The night we flew, the nights we tried…
The mystic fighter who boards the boat…
The fallen writer who drifts afloat…
The visions get clear, but the mind surrenders…
The end is near, and we’re going under…
…turbulent times, like a wave of dust…
…blinding mimes, and laid to rust…
Oh wait, here’s the knife…
…to free the thing that you call your life
But here’s the thing, for it is my sin…
I can’t complete what I begin.
Poète maudit 
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