not murdered by hate elemental pure
the whimsy of God's decisions
or the anger that leads us from bar to bar
and fills our glasses with tears a-brim
by the night that covers us with lies
and washes us with our mourning
by those who take us again and again
murdered by kisses deeper than scars
sweeter than the scaffold's song
by the longing that strangles
and bruises too long
the fingers that fall like fists
by the taste of me on your lover's lips
and my tongue between your legs
yes you and I will be murdered
by the sleep that lovers know too well
and the madness they cannot quell
About the Creator
Christopher Francis
I began writing as a child, continued as an adult and worked briefly as a professional. Literature and music were and are my passions. Then life got in the way. Now, at 66 they have returned and I am giving them my full attention. Ta da.
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The sun was high when Lance pulled off the road and into the dusty lot of the service station. The sign back at the hairpin--the first sign in a long time--said they just rolled into Hatter’s Creek, Population 63. It was small enough it didn’t appear on the handmap in Shelby’s lap, yet here it stood, the first backwater township on the fringes of the National Park. The plan was to gas up, restock the snack bag, and press on into the wilderness.
By Zack Graham3 days ago in Fiction
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