Poetry

You walk out from 
the bruises, like a late 
bloomer, for a clandestine 
affair with indigo pain. 
 
I break the barrier, 
and teach myself, how not 
to make an incendiary bomb. 
A cohort will untie the barbed wires. 
 
Now you can tread carefully 
on fire ants, undaunted. 
While stitches will take care 
of the woundless blood. 
 
A hoax sends you scurrying, 
to find the golden apple, 
which never emerges in light. 
In despair you commit a crime.