In a quest to fix the past,
In the quest to fit in your dice;

I'm lagging behind myself,
Crushing betwixt the vice.

The wrangling thoughts,
The broken lies,
Just to estop the cede.

The tincture of amity
They vex in my vain
Penetrating like a weed.

Let there be fiction
Of the pristine woman
Who sold her mind
To the warmth.

And you be the meter
For my broken verses
Let those unfixed lumps
Brew the Fort.

- ঈsheকা