Thursday, June 11, 2009

So be it.



The Devil works his whispering ways


and children coughing seems worse these days.


Ignoble toes move over your door


and Fate's sweet face aches terrible sore.




Come what may shouts Destiny's whore


the gift of life, ground cover for war.


Pleasure begrudged like tincture of woe


ghosts waters so fey and turns them slow.




Joy is above the mind's undertow.


Laugh at the Devil and away he will go.


Pleasure is simple in the foothill of dreams.


So go to the mountain and the unlit scream.

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