dreams of reinvention - Martydom, One

PART TWO: THE DEMON

Inside this quaint rush, I
Remember.
Do you?
We are not unlike she;
Splintered ivory and pockmarked skin
(so barely there)
Faking Our Loyalties.

And so we are, of course.
Swearing our souls,
(whirling things with snarls and snipes of glittering nevermore)
Don't you have One?

Yet still, I protest.
This thing-
entombed behind her own spiteful articulations-
is mine to destroy.
Can't you hear her?
Breathe gasping, muttering, wheezing
from worn lungs, poisioned and dry
and scathing.

The stone
(it is more a rock)
is cold and waiting in my palm.
Takes my whole palm.
Throws itself-


This rock has unleashed such Satan.