The Writings On the Walls

Sketches of coal, burning pitch black enigmas emanate from each mark; Foll’wing trails on, getting back on track, laid and torn ‘part, lone in the dark. Graffiti of different crime, something that you cannot define. Each occurrence does not, at all, rhyme like the foul curse which to you binds, another day, another night, all endless to a silent whisper and a muted scream taking a bite little by little, it's getting closer. In the last hour, desperation, do you dare speak of the impossible, pouring out what’s based on emotion within the writings on the wall?