Annie is dead. Got bullet in her head. A golden goose flew out the window when they found the body. Bulging the blood-filled balloon. Let the bastard chase your mental and physical collapse in this world that has no idea how many days and nights the world shakes shakes shakes, under constant ambience like aneurism,
like an animal waiting unexpectedly in your brain like somebody else
without proof of having seen it but felt it. Having been told it might be there. That there is a possibility of it killing you, that it killed you, an unknown object.
Respect the funeral ride of silent black emptying sorrow before the x-ray light.
Sorrow that bursted, till erupted the cortége before us on the walkway oily pavement like new
that there is lack like never before.