murder was a question life asked of him
he was a friend to death painted in blood
the bird skull path of youth he walked
the crushed map of a torn ashen body
he can taste tomorrow in the tongue of another
all the killing tastes like seaspray salt
and he strides through the laced up shadows of alleys
to unpin the flesh from the writing wall
and let the scarlet tide unwrap in scarves
from the vault of ivory skin that hugs contours
to embrace the heart of the blade and to know
that whatever comes your way won't interrupt the flow

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