on the thirteenth day, he pointed his finger at the double-tongued girl and told the devil (that sat atop her shoulder) that she was the seraph that haunted his dreams. she could not have denied it more than if she had been blamed for piety, and so he pressed a hymn to her lips and made her bless it with a lie.
but
no, she did not love this prophet
her alibi was the flower-lipped heathen who let his hair down every other wednesday
YOU ARE READING
CYANIDE DREAMER
Poetrysaturn rises from the valley of my neck and sets in the folds of my hell-drunken veins [ #1 in poetry, 1.25.19 ]
