'Too few of us arent guilty of murder', lets
look to inward and inquire, how often it is
one that loves kills that which he loves.
Question: in lust isnt pain profound?
A young brides lingering nights subject a
loving man to torture.
The priests haunting revelations taunt/ haunt
the day dreams of the pious.
All too often young love dies before adulthood:
all that remains of it are recurring images of
lonesome nights. Mine was strangled with
A re-awakening that led to the realization,
'all too often, all that we love should be to death put'