it was all so innocent … late nights, under the misty rain,
lit by the grins of leering pervert street-lamps;
and now, it is the angry stench of death in the morning,
rotting from hurts unhealed, from wounds filled with salt,
that rapes, with such glee, that long ago innocence.
a fan of history would pour over documentation –
a reasonable journalist would investigate causes –
a child of average curiosity would wonder what it was –
but I am steel in my detrimental determinant:
the rape of the innocence is the song of the universe.