Her brittle,
aged and broken fingers close tightly onto my fate. She squeezes and the ruddy
liquid slips out from her cold grasp. I cry out for warmth, like a former slave
still begging for his master’s petition.
Forced to
battle violent tree-lifting waves, as they crash across my damaged tin roof. I
try to stand tall for I know Heaven’s glory can be won only after Hell’s gore.
But time has ravished my scenes of youth leaving me hoary and weak.
Her silence is colder than God's refusal of
Lucifer's tragic plea. Never have I received cuts so thick I know their healing
will not pass till my guarded demise, as too my love for her.
-Johnny V.
-Johnny V.
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