She comes in like the fractious wind,
Apostate in discourse, sporadic , like the music in my head.
It isn’t her choice to die, life is nothing but an expiring contract.
She pleads to the devil in the skies, but he is clandestine, and yet lurking beneath behind her breath.
His malicious smile is a premonition, to a premature death,
A precursor to Hades’ wrath, she is slain with a machete.
I long for a whiff of her breath,
The comfort of placing my head upon her bosom,
As we stare into the wilderness,
Armed with no weapons, combatants to a preemptive battle.
And as I rub the blades of the grass that we once made our bed,
I lay alone, solitary, gazing into the boundless woods,
Derelict, longing for her blissful touch,
I laugh aloud at the Devil’s chicanery.
For even the preposterous mauler of souls failed to see,
In the river of death, there is no one for you but me.
To die in your name, is the ultimate pardon of the recidivist,
To live without you, is like blasphemy in every breath.
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