grated granules

When a grown man commits a series of crimes,
his neck doesn't fit the tie.
He whispers into his ugly locks
to let the blood of the lost drip drops

Cringing his nerves and cracking a laugh
he thinks his luciferous ghosts have passed

But under the dried up skin he knows
his crimes surpass, but the criminal masts - writhing the holy

Squeezing through dots of grey and black