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.
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