Jealousy

The sea can solicit a mother's compassion with a warm breaze across her moist blue bosom. Then her anger with indulgent, white, and foamed waves which can dwarf the majestic redwoods.

Guard ye, she is at first a cruel and selfish mistress. Even while on land she demands the attention of her captives. Her mark is upon them, nare do they feel sound lest it be within her embrace.
...
Still she is quick to jealous rage and will pull the uncareful to his wartery grave. He lost evermore deep within her cool and profane womb. Those whom he feeds with his labor forever doubtful of his conclusion.

Alas swaggering sailors born of broken and stout men will forever follow her siren song blind are they to her false charm. Pledging to her their devotion, their industry, their chastity.

Johnny V

Her Magic

The moon deplumes the salty sea up onf the sand covered shores, so too she spills her sickness across my heart. First the gentle fondness consumes my spirit. In time its toxin corrodes my tender flesh.

Later as I cleanse the defectiveness from my soul, the scars are revealed and deep, the color of nicotine stained teeth ground into stone. The pain I know will last and become an endeaver of my need. Soon her memory will become as faint as a dead star.

Then like a sudden and violent storm she reenters without fear,  letting loose the arrow of pride. Her sweet and false joy dripping from her fangs. She is struck dumb as I react not. Rare is it that her magic is benign and unaccepted.

She makes one last plea, but her power over me has been incapacitated and empty for too many hours. She sends up an untamed prayer to God but he refuses to hear. For he is the curator of beauty and faith, but will always shun the darkness.

-Johnny V.

Communion Table

Life can reward, but more often she denies. Ignorant are we with our vacant stares and hollow eyes.

So at her communion table we beg yet again, dejected and soured by God's indiscretions.

Left with our empty unfrequent souls to cry with the dispirited half god of unwashed dreams.

Trapped in the steamed passageway of blasphemy, alone with our profane and uncheerful hearts.

Yearing for a time when we burned with the passion of youth.

-Johnny V.