"A vice grinds hard in the gut..."
Began a poem from decades past.
From one hard lover, now a ghost,
Whose words have long since passed.
She scoffed at love and poured another,
Drunk, to dull the pain,
Sober, I held her in my arms,
On guard against the flames.
But love grew, still, within the dark,
Inside her body, bourbon-tied.
Unseen to me, there was a spark,
And the gates below blew open wide.
Discarding friends and lovers, too,
She ****** them for their care.
Believing this was what to do,
Her love became a dare.
She sang her wrath in poetry,
Self-loathing, hatred, blame.
The gilded coach that had to be,
A vehicle of pain.
I made farewells once she was gone,
They formed inside of sighs.
I gathered up the rhyming note,
And kissed her peaceful eyes.