Thursday, October 23, 2014

Of Phantom Penumbras

So he was coined;
the culprit.
The tosses and turns
during humid nights
and that he once
surmised as true
In dark and desparate
She would touch
the tip of its thorns...
the pleasure is not
a dream
nor a delightful
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

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