Nightmare

I've forgotten the idea that no one
remember no more. I am a withered blue
flower, which was part of a field of rye before.
A broken pot is no longer
no glue together again.
Dents are so full of conscience,
and the abyss is the way to truth, as well as your fitness.
Gypsum, and wraps, they would be required.
that the condition of this broken woman would.
Life is one of the black empty hole,
full of long, continuous nightmare.