Ceci n’est pas une pipe

C’est la trahison des images

Toutes avec vos équipe

Collé à le cauchemar étrange


Parce-que ce que vous voir

Peut-être est l’illusion

Dans la sombre de le soir

Comme une grande éthérée fusion


Ils faites la torsion avec l’esprit

Mais c'est pour un jeux des senses doux

Joyeuse avec l'escape dans le vide

Ils courent comme le sang mauve pour vous

This is not a pipe

This is the treachery of images

All with your team

Stuck to the strange nightmare


Because what you see

Might be an illusion

In the dark of the night

Like a great ethereal fusion


They twist the mind

But it is a game of soft senses

Joyful with the escape into the void

They run like the purple blood for you

© 2020 Rahaman Writing

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"Approaching the docks, we heard the violent smashing of wood and the clanging of metal being pounded through the cold veil of white mist that hung in the air by the coast. With a sudden gust, the pale haze cleared to reveal a beast from the brine like none I had seen before or after my time on Kioshell Island. It was roughly the same size as the fishing ship that had ferried me here and was in the process of tearing apart a vessel of similar proportions with a cold fury, pausing only to fling away huge bits of debris or adjust the monstrous maw that was its shell: the living, partially decomposed head of a sky serpent.."