Whose Shirt is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite mysterious though.
He was cross like a restless shadow.
I watch his iron. I cry inflow.

He gives his cloth a hardened shake,
And screams “I’ve made a bad mistake.”
The only sound to make the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The shirt is Tattered, worn and deep,
like the  useless promises he claims to keep,
Tormented by nightmares to never sleep.
Revenge is a promise I said to keep.

this t-shirt lies on this cursed bed
=houghts of violence swarm his head
the burn of the iron glows him red
Without a pause, I turned and fled.

Because of a t-shirt, his rage had me dead.

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