Plurality of the sin
slids across the sludge
of cheating -
on the cohabitation of virtue.

Encountering myself in mirror,
under the spell of repetition?
Discovering yourself -
can you predict your end?
Inheriting the long night -
I cannot act for me. The flesh
seeks the curved breast of
unspoken grief. I wouldn't become ruthless -

to smell the gift of parting kiss,
tossing the landscape aside.