All my past, alone
on haunted alleys,
I tried running blue
while pain in absence;
for coldness unwrapped
my paper walls,
to close my doors,
rotate my halls,
where there precedes
only a promise,
found guilt before
a justice' notice;
what cruel home
on empty stakes
afraid of healing,
never on breaks;
still 'lone, my past;
on gloom horizon
'least there a sight
this heated winter,
yet, lonely the steps;
deepened the footprints;
no depth it reaches
or secrets on bloodstains,
poor little escape;
of innocent cowardry,
this purity of a fear,
what wasted artistry;
keep footsteps a pace
no further than relief,
or shortcuts for seconds,
nor endings to believe.
