Black glove at my neck- the end of the year. Those lovers were soldiers, bed spies, bombs of leg losing, the mind dropping in one blow.
Masters of bullets, sacred sabotage, reasons why I listened to the radio blaring the sweet song of someone else's bad news.
Voices of valleys in the distance, sinking at the notice of runaway trains, the apocalypse-what little we know of it, the quiet contemplation of last night's champagne.
I search for any light in the flickering distance, as the sound of the unknown approaches.
