Ripped from his crypt, he
Rips past fast and furious.
Curious, she sits
On her rocking chair and stares
At this fair spirit.
Lit from head to toe like a
Flaming diamond, sun
Reflecting off towards the
Direction he is
Going, she is dying to
Touch this free demon.
Fed up with the fact she lost
Her identity,
Longing for mischief or a
Flare of forgotten
Passion, she leaps after him,
At least the best she
Can with her caned up legs. His
Eyes stay fixed on the
Road, leaving but dust behind
For this craven and
Ravenous old woman. She
Thus sits back down in
Her chair. But now in her mind
She’s thunder, lightning
Cold hot-momma with flaring
Hair, flagging down those
Low-riding demons with her
***** and her ***,
Wolfing them down, or at least
Until the day she
Dies. Then she’ll ride with them, a
Flaming raven, a
Demon, ripped from her own crypt.