THE FURY
Midnight hair unevenly divided by auburn lighting.
Proof of that high voltage is the billions of billowing tiny curls that wrap my heart in full harness. Chained forever to her electric chair throne, I ask for no emancipation.
Lights flash too bright, darkness then light again, a power surge.
Teeth so bright and straight now grind in pain that I've caused.
The full circle of her Iris is shown, new growth green and golden flaked.
Eyes thrown wide with the shock of my crime.
In the 8th century a BC, poets Hesiod and Homer describe the FURIES.
Terrible female divinities who represent the torture and pain of a guilty conscience.
At first, they were depicted as Medusa like hags.
Through time they became uncommonly beautiful.
The Fury I know, was always beyond attractive, magical in her allure.
Greek legend says the appropriate offering to these FURIES, is a black sheep slain at midnight.
Hell on this side of the grave, this punisher haunts my dreams with every quality I find desirable in a woman.
Hypnotized by the swing of her hips, I'm in anything but a deep sleep.
I can hear the song her jeans sing.
Magnetic, magnificent thighs rub as she walks.
That friction kindles an alter fire.
Thrown away and imprisoned, this outcast of the flock dies a little more each night.
A consumed offering that's always found wanting.
Only a woman who could love that hard, could have tears that eat away at me like acid. I watch them run down beside a nose that finally reveals the Eskimo's preoccupation.
It now wrinkles in disgust at the smell of a charred pig, revealed beneath a singed lambskin.
Hell hath no fury like a woman built for porn.
Hips and bottom so round and full, I forecast an eclipse.
The light has gone out of my eyes.
No longer living, only existing in the shadow of a life without her.
I attempt to lean in and whisper my worship.
The light fragrance of her perfume mingles with what is only her.
How can only a suggestion of her femininity pull stronger than gravity?
I levitate in her wake, high on her.
Lights flash.
I crash.
My hopes are dashed.
Her teeth gnash from the pain of the reality I've created.
Her nails split from the strained grip on her throne.
A throne that holds her tight in bonds and bands of my making.
Her crown smoulders, mashed down onto that tropical depression.
Only the chin strap can hold it in place as she bucks from the current made from my past.
The tearful smile she gives me fills the silence like a scream, amid the sparks.
The scream of the PA system hollering "wake up call", with lights flashing.
Knowing the next time I close my eyes, I'll see midnight hair unevenly divided by auburn lighting.