Not a Tomb but a womb Dark and void A sneeze of dust below And tons of Earth on the roof above The steam atmosphere saturates the bath My eyes are open yet closed for no sight to behold Limbs idle, stoned and cold The heart quarkes to a wired rhythm And my lungs hiccups towards breathing All odds of survival navigates fallacy Shadows are published with no lantern alive to see When illusions kept a distance to exit Now phantom are in debt to anything legit As my memories rode on tortoise back Such poor recalling I am still on a chasuble of rich lenin then I knew far from metaphor Death is a host a life a vector