The one happening;
which never happned.
A slice of mock invasion on
inner sanctum to find your own name.
Who were you?
A mind not on the mend? A
house you were not living in?
The forecast was wary of strangers.
A deadly intent was hurling
the desires onto the stones
of eyes. A fog hides the melt.
You were not ready for syntax,
a rhyme breaks into sobs.
Washed by pain, a sting
becomes the poem.
