Poetry

Without trying to become
an avenger,
you were trying to find the-
joy of primitive faith.

The dignity of terror has
to be modified.
You were now afraid of-
yourself in the crowd.

This thing had a dark tone, when
you cross the street.
Underneath, the seed vessels of
past pain, were ready to split open.

The bandits wait on the line
of control. The shock
comes out in open. Society is
generous, accepts your blood.