She Fell Into The Abyss

he takes to the tunnel of night
dark at first, but he tiptoes in
and sees the light
he follows a trail
a women's scent that arouses him
he sees her across the bar
seated by herself
hunger on her face
a wallflower
a sheep in a lea to him
weak and pull-able of wool
and he needs wool
a ball of yarn to desensitize
and spins to his satisfaction
and he needs to be sated
... especially
with this ones youth and innocence
her striking blue eyes
and sweet mouth
indifferent to him
but it's her pond of ducks that excites ... him
hidden in his pocket
is a knife of fantasy
a blade of deceit
rope of words to incapacitate
... then
he looks into her blues
as he begins making his move
sweet talking, sweet talking
her socks off
he keeps seeing the ducks in the pond
swimming faster and faster
his heart beating faster and faster
a fruit ripening before his eyes
ready to be eaten
he takes the first dagger from his pocket
two white pills and slips into her drink
laughs to himself
at least this dagger won't hurt
as he chokes on his sadism
she falls into her arms
asleep
so soft and vulnerable
unsuspecting and naive
she walks out with him in slumber
later that night
a shotgun blasts breaks the air
ducks flapping in the night
then ... silence

Logan Robertson

2/18/21

The skill of a writer, his abilities
Are found in how well he can show and tell
The sun shining through the canopy
In a rare sea cone, the wind nestling

The immensity of the broken heart
Can only be found in his ruby redness
And the frigidity of his thorny stem
With a delicate rose covered in rain

I often found shortness of sluttish time
Can be felt in my restless, urgent lines
Moving beyond foolish rhymes with strict meter
Preserved in every cup of similes and minutes

Myself present in every metaphor
The hours may pass without a word for her

The saddest part about caring
Is when the other person doesn't
Understand why they make you happy