Eleven, hands open, God sees all things, hell awaits, God can be somber in summer, things end with dew on the ground, down at the city you know so well. Eyes on you, hand on your mouth, dragging you down, screaming without sound, clothes ripped off, explosions all over you, innocence gone.
Bathing bruises and cuts, not yet in bloom, heart softly pounding.
Child. Echo of the mother, almost speakless, tombs for eyes, a frightening reminder, a demon for this world, a forked tongued whore, into cold arms and an infernal grace that passes gradually into silent rage, heart reflecting and pounding, empty palms.