Poetry

The shadows sit,
under the words, to torture,
to bring,
perse memories.
 
A downfall,
precedes,
before the crash of
existence.
 
Ah, you know,
what makes your saints
blue? The sematic shooting
stars?
 
The anxiety was,
how to stop thinking
of becoming,
a vigilante.
 
The mid-night raid
was most unsuccessful attempt
to rape.