The devil’s raw stench.
Soul consumed by prison cells.

Free choices weren’t the matrix of his life.
Hence he tapped dance in the devil’s arch.

His soul is an alley hence spite came tumbling down his heart.
He regrets the prejudice of breathing village dust.

Because it’s shadow made him spit on the face of his morals.
As moons pass he casts his pearls before the swines.

Pain is an agent that seems not to yawn nor sleep.
Hence his soul peeps over the suicidal Ville.

As life cheats on him he is left to stitch his wings.
Life came with it’s pledge now his soul is hugged by bruises.