Tousling the opulence was
not modesty...

A siege had an agenda
for a suicide match...

Boots in air
an elite brain hangs out...

A livid moon had started
a body count for undoing a book...

It was night sin
of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading...

The hawk was always hatching
a pacer...

Talking points at ground zero
trap the heat. The tyranny...

The doubters will cross the coals
after the raid...

It was a fake time,
moon will not rise...

Buried at sea
the dead man lives, as if a blood...

A golden bullet will bite
the adolescence for the sake of...

When night will not speak
and shoes will float on the water...