Very Little Late
Hate so black, blacker than 2 when only one attacks.
Blood ash my back red when my mind greys the flame to fire black. My tornado becomes the minister of sinister.
My thunderous storm gales the venom to tear through the vengeance.
Kill I want to the ill which will. Murderous thoughts spirals down torrents displaying vulgar.
The clock strikes 8.
I stand in front of the mirror.
I set my tie.
I straighten my shirt.
It is time for work and I am, again, to the ten, very little late.
Today, I will pray.
Please God
Let me have the last say
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