Flaming embers of sexual desire smolder waiting for our two bodies to collide, supple fingertips trace the lines of passion side by side. An unlived fantasy reveals discrete revelation, a longing for peaking sensation. Erupting beliefs betray the naive to her loss, a red stream tells the tale. The devil lingers behind the lifeless eyes, of an inhumane male.
An angel’s foolishness gives birth to used goods, a pretentious sale agreed. The signs of redemption were the other path she should have chosen, have read more carefully the deed. Love doesn’t come in a minute she should have learned, now all of Adam’s descendants she will have spurned.
Let the accepted fate of William Wallace be the template for all man’s demise, prophets armed with Maya Angelou, united we rise. Let man’s old fashion indignation for women’s rights to be heard fall into the abyss. Let the caterpillar of dependence transform into a butterfly of independent bliss.
Engrained in what childhood lesson are Irish boys taught to treat their equals with such malicious intent if you only had told me the truth, I was nothing but a means to an end is what you really meant. Cupid’s aim was an occupational hazard on this day; his arrow hitting others but not you.
The twenty-nine-year-old woman who misplaced her flower did not deserve to be condemned, and though she will have to answer in the end, monsters like you will reap what they sow too.
Copyright © 2017 Angela Marie Suor