Geometry strives to gash the malice of those who despise me.
But the perpetrators are soupy fogs sunk in crevices of soft tissues.
Showers of the irradiated shampoos won’t rid the tenement of enmity.
Clamorous music at destructive volumes does not vex their black scorn.
Closets, dead, gloomy, sweltry and burnt orange do not allow for burials.
It is said that prayer works on the fallen whether or not you believe it.