Ivy of lies,
Wrapping, shifting;
Hoists him by the throat.
Woodwitch, in glee,
Cackles in delight;
Dangling by the neck, he floats.

She put down her book and
rolled over to his side,
Searching for sincerity
in his dilated eyes.
"Do you believe in dragons?"
A pause. A knowing smile.
"Yes."

Doubt hung for a fleeting moment ,
Then you dragged me under the waterline,
Never to go up for air again,
Your hand never leaving mine.

Why then,
Doesn't it thrill me?

Spare me a little oxygen,
I'd want to see the onset of tomorrow
Through the blurring from my tears
So I can't know for sure,
That proof of your existence
Lies in treacherous memory
And that you're gone.

The retrograde misanthrope
Takes another blow
While she keeps the show running
In a technicolor blaze
So you can't know for sure,
It's her toxic blood winding down the stage.

It can't be helped
and there's no one to implicate
But her induced kleptomania
Dripping from the slack tips of her fingers
Until she's left standing
In a pool of her own guilt.