Grim Truth

The only truth he knows

He courts between two fingers:

A romance, swift and silent,

Before a blue-nailed strike

Erupts across the night

To mark her birth.

Deeply, religiously,

He draws her in,

Past the vanity of wind-swept teeth,

Down the meaty maw,

Where dreams and lies collude.

In his struggle to contain her,

He endures,

Until bulging, blue-faced,

She is loosed upon the moonlight

In a silky, coiled ascent.

And somewhere below,

A flimsy, vapid grin betrays his ignorance

That she has stolen more, ever more,

Than she arrived with,

Leaving nothing in her wake,

Save the lingering, sweet perfume

Of wanton death.