So
many hearts keep falling
for
the tainted silver in his tongue,
for
the spit that dazes reasoning
before
sinking teeth into flesh.
Not her heart--
she
recognizes the fakery
oozing
out of the sick,
sick
shine in his eyes;
she
sees him sign more contracts
with
blood of the shackled sheep,
of
the choice-robbed,
of
the enthralled...
she
wonders
if
any of them would ever see
the
muck that sticks to his bones,
the
worms living in the hollows
that
should’ve
housed a soul;
will
they ever
sense
the incubus
under
the wealth-made halo,
or
has he sucked all the marrow
out
of their futures and wits?
– I wrote the first version of this poem in another November, some years ago. Feeling the
need to revisit the topic makes me so very nervous. Sigh.
– for
Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #151: “a box full of darkness”)