04-12-2016, 05:00 AM
I am no kind of saviour
I have shorn my own Samson lock
and served it up, silver-plattered, to
a Bathsheban stand-in starlet waiting in
wings of rotten traitor-bearing planks
until, pirate-fashion, the hook spikes
through necks bared to unremembered
never, never agains
and hands bleed from crowning
thorny heads with silken gloves
slid elegantly across
throats of rose-petal softness
to tie knots in breath-filled memories
and caress what should have been
As time passes in the belly of the beast
and lost children’s stones bring down giants,
so must I rest
just a while
and remind myself that next time
I should fire first
and keep a blade for my own back
I have shorn my own Samson lock
and served it up, silver-plattered, to
a Bathsheban stand-in starlet waiting in
wings of rotten traitor-bearing planks
until, pirate-fashion, the hook spikes
through necks bared to unremembered
never, never agains
and hands bleed from crowning
thorny heads with silken gloves
slid elegantly across
throats of rose-petal softness
to tie knots in breath-filled memories
and caress what should have been
As time passes in the belly of the beast
and lost children’s stones bring down giants,
so must I rest
just a while
and remind myself that next time
I should fire first
and keep a blade for my own back
It could be worse