As he turned the corner, he prayed no one would notice,
His backpack close and his change chinking,
The night drew lots of lost boys to this abandoned city,
One migrated from hell, away his own father,
To find solace within himself,
To find the angels that abandoned him,
His father’s crimes indescribable and irreconcilable,
Breaking through each day without remorse,
“But no one can bring back the dead,”
His excuse, his only excuse.
So he killed his mother’s killer,
His umbrella stained with his father’s blood,
The son like Oedipus,
His horrendous crime of passion.