Faesong

 
 

By Rhea Cassidy

 

The soft fool,
that plays in the moonshine,
lured by the music of deceit.
Wilfull lies,
cutting into the flesh of the sole,
blades of glass,
branches in her curls.
Kisses tickle against her flesh.
Mouth to mouth.
Skin to light.
What it holds is cowardice,
senses lulled to sleep
by faesong.
“Come dance, come dance.
Feast on our fruits,
our fleshy sweet juices.
The apples of sin,
the pomegranates of temptation sour.
Picked ripe
from the garden of our land.
Don’t be wary,
no serpent lies down with us.”
Sugar in the mouth,
acid in the veins,
poison to the mind.
And kept forever, all in a day.
A glowing waste of youth,
but food for their chaos.
Their jealous nature burns.
They waste her body,
suck from her fingers
her wishes and dreams.
Kisses tell secrets kept.
Her skin mapping her life past and to be.
A waste, heeding no warning given before.
A waste known
too foolish to make sense.
Tripping on fire,
withering in the ecstacy.

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