Poetry

Would not wear 
the seasoned face. 
Eye for eye 
blasting the truth. 
 
The path becomes the tunnel. 
Unending, 
in pain of speech 
at the expense of ethics. 
 
Under the fingernails 
they start interbreeding 
the ideas, crimnalizing the 
upright past. 
 
A vultured darkness descends 
on the raped bed. 
The great seduction of moon 
had triumphed.