The Year Of Marcus. Poem by Ebi Robert

And now the spirits.
Flesh and blood and immortals.
A poisoned sky
And charming cloud.

All kind of music and lazy dead.
Crucification and self blood.
God will cry and cry
Girdles shall fly high.

Demons and devils year.
Meltdown of green-bed.
Terror of the daugthers
Freestyle of the founders.

And proprietors legitimacy
to a banishment of 'DEATH'
And banishment of life.
Free-gift is lost to exile.

But shall be found 'TO TOO LATE'
to too late, and sorrow year
Ay! No way to save cosmetics
The love is dead.