So he was coined;
the culprit.
The tosses and turns
during humid nights
and that he once
surmised as true
In dark and desparate
evenings;
She would touch
the tip of its thorns...
ensuring;
the pleasure is not
a dream
nor a delightful
fancy.
He hid until the hardness
has hung it self
a suicide on the edge
of a damp, old pulpit
No one knew his face.
The suspect...
as always...
was me.
Jay Protacio Mendoza
