Map in my possession looks like something Jackson Pollock would deem too abstract.
Cold cash buried there. Hitman, and they, want it. Feels all mine.
Maybe a slicked-back blonde Charlize Theron look-alike. Twist my neck between her thighs.
More mine than ever!
A lie of the mind the cat dragged in. Can’t sleep for sweat in my eyes.
Maybe they have forgotten me?
I say another prayer to Edgar Allen Poe.