The Soft, Buttery Sun
By L.T. Henning
Soaking under the soft, buttery sun. I watch clouds sail by,
Colors of cream and salt splash across the violet sky.
Inhaling the deep, moist scent of the grass, I felt no doubt or shame.
I tell him I will leave, unlocking the pain in a vault with no name. Melancholy and mysterious, he stands before me.
A smile, like a gargoyle: cerebral, cunning, and calculated, springs forth like snakes’ coils.
Mad with purple vengeance, he dismantles my spiritual belief.
I am silent as his answer forces me to take leave, from black eyebrows with craggy silver threads, woven in a spidery weave.
His efforts to deceive having failed, his hands strike me.
Black and blue welts from wallops stain my flesh, imprint upon my psyche.
Seven deadly sins flash before my bloody eyes, only jealousy survives.
He lives, soaking under the soft, buttery sun, as my body decays under the earth on a cold, wet day.
Floating in the mist under a violent sky, I stay, waiting for the warmth of a sun that never comes.
No Comments