You walk out from
the bruises, like a late
bloomer, for a clandestine
affair with indigo pain.
I break the barrier,
and teach myself, how not
to make an incendiary bomb.
A cohort will untie the barbed wires.
Now you can tread carefully
on fire ants, undaunted.
While stitches will take care
of the woundless blood.
A hoax sends you scurrying,
to find the golden apple,
which never emerges in light.
In despair you commit a crime.