Nights of Her


At night I run infiltrated continuously

Ominous streets cleave, rupture, bombard

Heels disintegrate into concrete crevices

Blemishes and Bruises Berate Bodily meaning

Lifeless but relentless I indulge in gratification

Persuasion and Reassurance alleviate abhorrence

Deprived of meaning, customary, standard, habitual

 Lackluster days and Mundane nights of countless patrons

Prowling Peculiar lanes I become a predator of the night

But who is praying on who? Severe self loathing advances

my bland pursuit as my legs deplete all vigor I once possessed

And my back becomes a crutch to all but I, and my thighs

become stanchions in which force is applied. I’m just a

night shadow or at least that’s my comfort, because I

live a life of sin in which I can’t afford to feel.


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