There are only open plains
And still lifes on a loop
In this cracked frame of mind

So few chaotic words
To claim the disturbed
For uprooting the stern
The cool and assured

I have nothing surreal
To budge the unashamed
From their angelic forms
To the arms
Of their snarling madness

The truth
Is too perfect to thrive
In this blank state of mind
Where the landscapes unfurl
In their passionless shades