The night it rained fire on
the roof of our lips at the crossroad
to change marked the genesis of
our escape from dungeons of
slavery guarded by angels wearing
rusted armours of debauchery.

That night, every actions was a detonation,
every gesture, a release of missiles,
as we channeled our antipathy toward the
irksome acts of hogwash
orchestrated by our gods.

We...