Pained Reproaches

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.