January thirty-first, two thousand eleven:

A penitent starting point dwells in isolation,

Inflicting affliction without spoken paroxysms.

Frail hearts don’t approach desolation in fear

Of stomping on the hidden disappointments

But wait for it to crawl on the wooden floor

Hushing the wistful marching of sanguinity—

Calamity wanders without a set of directions,

Imprinting each immaculate canvas found on

The glass walls that incarcerate dissonances.

Psithurism tries to decipher the volatile signs.

Where will perpetual resonations lead them?