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.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Added by Poetry Lover
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