An empty field. A desire. A lust. The taste of nothing yet smells like something. What is dark if light does not exist. The embellishment of scrutinized vision of dirty outcome. Pleasure is needed, seeding with imperfection lost in exception. By far the last grasp is always the first. The sum of grapes emptied in the song of taste. The liquid is based in what has last been gazed. Mercenaries of war.. Strangled on the floor .. With a vision.. The skeptic thought of expectation is vibrant with affection.. Fixation of an artistic sweep is pigmentation of realistic tweaks.. Roses are red.. a reflection of truth that marks.. If not.. but slightly bent.. The dark rose has shown its face..
Erech 
Nice to see you back.. This is how true poetry should be like.. strong and beautiful!