Writhing,
The bare footsteps
Feed the barely finite
battle scars on his soul.
Beguiled,
Until the day
comes when virtue
arrives at terms
With his disgust.
Fighting,
Forgetting who
it was that saved him
from himself.
Interrupted,
His eyes burning
hot as coals,
Flaring up his
ready inhibitions.
Insecurity comes
in a whirlwind
of words that
Pour from her mouth
and from her eyes,
Willing to undo
the hatred of
agonizing days,
Of so many tearful
years apart from
Himself.
Eyes black as tar,
Black as a heart
who’s fears have
swelled in a skull
Exhumed from
the darkness,
the farce.
A deadening effigy
Regretting it’s end.
Then time, in turn
rises to meet
him in his tired ways
Fanning the fire,
Or his ascent…
into madness. |