Wrong Reasons

 
The way you turn around, in the dark,
is all wrong, and you have no idea
where you’re tonight or why. . .

Two streaks of light point to the place
where only blackness can survive,
and you go there, but you still don’t know.
You don’t know why
there is something heavy in your hand,
a hammer coated in warm blood,
in someone’s blood. You ask the blackness,
and the streaks of light become two fading eyes.