I am held in the scene by strings,
strings caressing, cutting the city's screams,
screams of jubilation and screams of paranoia,
paranoia at the approaching deadline,
deadlines always on our minds,
mind if I stroll through the wall of hate,
hate from your grey eyes,
eyes framed with your bright blonde hair,
hair that once before was described by my pen.

I killed you in a ****-poor short story.
I gave you a symbolic death.
It was a generous offering of peace.

Redemption earned but already forgotten,
forgotten along with those nostalgic rhymes locked,
locked in tightly formed verses of love poetry,
poetry for a tethered future,
future? Even Zion was built on ruins.

I killed your lover, too.
I sent her up in flame.
It was hard to have a habitual evening.