he holds the killing joke against me, like a shotgun.
and aims to my face.
to the sun he thrives, on the run
he pulls knives
out, the rifles, the twisted maze.
his perfect craze crumbling before my eyes.
it's an endless chase.
what he wishes for is fleeing fast out of his hands,
no print on, no trace.
and to shut down contention, my last point is down in my pocket. it's a thick line
under each word,
for his killing joke, i'd prepared the punchline.
punchline
© Copyright: Неттер Линг, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124062004248
Свидетельство о публикации №124062004248
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