Sometimes, When the weather is hot,
I think to myself about a murderous plot
the one in which Forward and Backward are torn
From the halos and wings
to the pitchforks and horns
I for one find the most common of calm
When I'm smashing my enemies
with the skin of my palm
there's forty two nights in this bloody rampage
and the last time I saw her
just 19 years of age
Those eyes burn with anguish
the sort meant to be feared
from tyrants to policemen
The powerful shed tears
I've thrown scrap metal to the winds
of chance and possibility
For the first time she stared
and I questioned my ability
To simply Speak a word
a sentence. a thought.
concrete. abstract.
collected. distraught.

and I failed.