I.

The moon swallowed up the shadows of our mortal trinkets strewn
carelessly across the streets: The solitary streets.
Throbbing with
nervous little heartbeats craving basic excuses of being in denial; We allow the wolf in sheep's clothing to hunt us out in the open right
under the incandescent bulbs, which add a mocking tint to those
nubile bodies we are so eager to offer.
That man doesn't need a
crown to make those endless women kneel down on their knees
before him : night after night, treason in between the crimson
sheets.
Trace out the outlines of this sadistic revolution on the
streets.
The solitary streets.

II.

Her blackened eye happened to be circumstancial evidence. But
we are so attuned,
to swim inside those flat television screens
retelling our extraordinary saga of make-believe
that we cast it aside as nonchalantly as crushed ant skulls by feet
adorned with soles.
Souls. Which threw up in digust when it saw you empty the bowl
filled with blood and sweat.
Also that steamy stew you cooked up with arteries and veins, still
pumping relentlessly.
Be vary enough not to stain your satin shirt which cost you an
entire regiment of dreams that were not yours.
Beg, borrow, steal.
That's how you stitched up that personality to die for.