The wrath of the incisions

Surface full of the wrath of cuts,
eye brightness died out already.
I'm too lonely,
I guess this hermit
I create your own desert.
only the skin,
furrows draw insidiously
little by little life.
I am a pulsating words
queen, without subjects,
without the kingdom.
I'm writing tonight's final
sentence, and then sallow
Spring into the dark window box
draw misting unfortunate.