Foolmoon*

Nights that last three score hours as mute minutes slowly splutter out their life waxing in endless repetition. First thought at birth of day Last at day’s death a death that would not die. Like a moth witched within your spell mesmerized singe their soul, in the hell you make. You were a heart user craving game seeking any succulent male loser intercepted within your reach. A black widow dancing on vibrant web of your vile deception. Potent fangs dripping venom to suck forth each fresh life; embalming chosen victim. A single loose cinder fallen from amoral ashen log. Cast out ashen and bitter seeking out flesh to blacken then blister. Engulfing to sear in flame the wages of pain you pay. A pathway of torches alien from the star speckled night, lighting the darkness of your soul. Copyright © Terence George Craddock