Fishpond.

Compelled by austere tragedies the meat of burnt dreams lay frozen in a family barbecue of summer evening a feast for the worms, sucking the thick red blood that ooze; almost oozes from the aneroxic stillness. Cascaded with ghosts of dead rocks and fishpond surfaces,they loiter aimless the spirits of sullen dreams. Nothing but the tick toc of a rusty clock measured and slow. Contemptuous of the carnival understands the vacant eyes of the boy in shadows prodigious silence,listening to the grinding of the stars.crumbling to dust a star-dust which sprinkles the misty lake relics of some ancient God's dream that died a fitting death.