'too few of us aren't guilty of murder', lets
look to inward and inquire, how often it is
one that loves kills that which he loves!
A young brides lingering nights subject a
loving man to torture. The priests haunting revelations
taunt the dreams of the pious.
All too often, young love dies before adulthood:
all that remains of it is recurring images of
lonesome nights.
Mine was strangled with lusts re-awakening: a
re-awakening that led to the realization,
'sadly all too often, all that we love should be
to death put'.
