Does a monster come in
Any other name?
Do we call a monster anything but--
Pride
Gluttony
Sloth
Lust
Envy
Greed
Wrath
--A monster?
Do we rework the order of sins for each monster we come across as such?
Envy
Envy
Envy
Pride
Wrath.
Lust lust
Greed greed
Wrath wrath wrath.
Forgive me,
Father.
For I have sinned.
I slipped into the lack of cognoscente thought that allows these sins to be allowed;
To take them,
As the slaughtered goat
For
A demon
Would take the razor's edge.

Forgive me,
Father.

Violet lips touch inside her pale
Slender wrist.
From these puncture holes, draw forth
A blue-black sledge of blood.
So, Spit the poison out
Hissing on white sheets.
And lie back, now
Rest, tucked in the violent, bruised
meditations of these forever fictional
hot, wet, sweating
fevered dreams
that pseudo lovers
lived and ****** in.
cradle hopes and gropings
in the dark, so everyone can see.
Fumbling zippers, fickle-fingers
Trace up and down the one-size-fits all
Manikins of their bodies.
Choking intuition out with
Rouged lips and bruised thighs.
Somewhere, a doll cries.
Cracked ceramics, lap with tongue against
The creased spine and
Thumping mounting moans of the
Sows in the fields
Echo sorrows held in harrowed hearts.

Today I went to a bookstore
A grief observed by C. S. Lewis.
Into a ziplock bag went this book, and
A quote from C Raymand Beran
--what is a friend?
I will tell you.
I drove the forty minutes along the dull highway
Lamposts like hovering, ghostly figures,
And slipped this package under the windshield wiper of your car.
Why is it that my own words can't express
What I'm feeling, so well as others do?
A-
For the tenth
-a friend
Those were my only words.
Your mother died eight months
Ago tomorrow, and here I
Sit. Selfishly hoping you'll speak
To me again.

Sickening slime of men—who are you who hath cast the first stone?
Samson and Delilah—Did I ask that you cut your hair?
Nay, I asked for the briefest of moments that two held together
Against their breast, shared between twin ribcages and
Softly sleeping slumbering, tucked between the covers.
‘twere as if the man had left the moon and she
With her soul song’s sobbing, took up against the rising darkness
Wielding a terrible light in hand.  
As now, I am.

A great darkness this is, that she finds herself in.
And doubling doubts of mischief calling, the sun
Makes known his truest searchings—for that fair woman
Whom the night doth embrace in a starlit cloak of exorbitant splendor.
But coquettishly she shies away—for the sun shall never be the moon--
And the rays of light are all too revealing of the crevices and craters
That pick their ways across her surface like clouds peppering a perfect
Sunset.

At one time, I walked with you through white barked forests.
and hand in hand I found
that a quiet stillness held my breath
in my chest.  
a calm quiet. a sacred quiet.

The leaves upon the trees
were shifting and shimmering a
turquoise blue and green liquid-ocean canopy, such that reaching out
I held such beauty.

Fingertips, caressing smooth, white bark, and then a
shudder-shiver as the leaves revealed themselves a twittering cacophony, which
in a single breath out, took flight with brush of wing.

And some words spoken softly, knowingly,
at a kitchen table in a home bereft of embraces,
held such a beauty that all other truths had been forcibly forgotten—
for beauty, in itself, is a truth.

And now in an empty room
of windows,
a chair sits at a kitchen table facing a white barked forest.  
The linoleum floor is barely worn—a thick residue coats
chilled air.  

No patter of feet across this floor, no laughter, no tears.
And in an empty room of windows, one pane is fogged
Facing,
   the white
          barked
   forest