Seneca's Garden

Seneca's Garden
Daily,under this deaf sky of falling rays some tiny flies make cyphers all around rotten meat,teaching the sense of our route without compass and awareness of it,so while I watch a seed and a fetus placed on the same ground and I can tell you I wasn't wrong
I planted those trees over there to never see them in need of shadow again,but the whirlwind which carries on all the facts gave space to axe instead of pencil 
 I was hanged with the folks next to mature fruits,luckily,the limb of casuality picked me
no clues,but im a sanctified victim of  the clockwork,the mechanism would say martyr but that's only written stuff,days looks so eternal and I'm not sure if I still handle the noisy reality or i'm just a mute epitaph 
stiff is the bark,I tried to engrave myself with a piece of shattered hopes,the tall oak made my prospective very low from where i watch now the land they owning and an innocent soft cloud ripped by is peak

spent time to plow their walk,I left the tool plenty of wounds for a good cause,thats why scarlett drops are still sliding down my figure,my name is Seneca big feet
 The santo barrio has always been a knot,and all the silent characters like me out of plot,pulled the rope against the savage silver every month
The belly of  labour will never deliver heroes,but lyied on a bed of dead leaves,or crouched in a porcelain chamber I would like to feel the palm of someone who wishes to preserve what i did
Now you are listening to the vocal chords of this place,or maybe only a cold grave.
(To the halo left by all the Senecas)