Poetry

An empty chair in a 
muffled day, starts 
a self-import and 
falters on steps. 
 
You need the fear, to 
strike back, when the 
tracer distribution 
returns with a ghost. 
 
The discount will substract 
from the truth. I will 
find the zero at the 
end of lies. 
 
Will I concede to the 
barter? Let me first taste 
the bitterness of victory, 
become drunk on your hate.