The Insomniac Writer

 
Lie to me
like you did when I was young
a little lie
pale and beautiful
to take away the fear
 
Lie to me
like you did to kill the pain
a bit of hope
cruel and desperate
to soothe the sting of life

slowly she slips
beneath a sea of satin
                                a sinful shark
                                circling another savage
soul; a silent
succubus, serene and seductive
                                soundlessly snaking
                                through slipshod
resolve; a sexual
spirit-my sword her stolen souvenir

                Tom Bishop ran his index finger between his sweaty neck and the damp collar of his shirt. The church had been as frigid as his ex-wife, but the reception hall would have made Dante feel at home. Add three hundred or more wedding guests and you had a ripe-smelling hotbox. He had been loathe [...]

a daughter’s love is diamond dust
a mother’s might, a father’s must
a glory sometimes barely won
a light as bright as any son
 
a daughter’s love is heaven’s grace
a sacred yoke, a holy place
a badge of pride, an answered prayer
a precious gift beyond compare

All at once, I fell below
this poisoned winter’s blood-red snow,
a plunge to die and live again
a spirit on the eastern wind.
 
A spectre, then, to roam the earth
until, at last, I’m given birth,
and there, once more, shall fall below
this poisoned winter’s blood-red snow.