Silent still, racing through dark back alleys, scathed to the bone with chilling emphasis about killing the man, promises to myself softly rejected, burying the morning sun at the back of my head, inching closer still to beheading the man, church bells quiver like in silent movies, for whom the bell tolls bringing out the dead, intricate farewells from families of lost children, prayers redeemed in blood stained hands, that streetlight is going to burn a hole in me, traveling southbound with a reckless burden, animals of the night encircle the drift, “hurry” the wind whispers deviously, something is taking forever to rise, hearts are bleeding on the church steps, he owns the very last seconds of midnight, the man is hollow like a cold breeze, daring your dreams to capture unknown, walk now run and it’s not enough, can’t ignore the taste of near escape, you may already be one of them, one with the man, breaching the code of humane privy, he’s going to kill that girl, rain shedding the brim willowy air, heavy the world weighs on your shoulders, return to the man your live eyes, break away yourself in free roam of the unknown, and Bury. Him. Alive.