I hold in my hand, my finger thrusting
deeply as I grasp this orb and gasp,
oh passionate one, our love once
ached and swooned, but now your
skull lies resting in my hand,
drained of all its bloom
it once held.
The asp so carefully hidden is he?
Neath the sinew left there for his
feeding, as he wiggles, and slithers
his grasp holds tightly, wrapped
around those unforgiving eyes
This orb once attached so firmly
to a spine, and bosom so plump,
yet so delicate in her nature,
she was a lamb led to slaughter
with the hemlock she drank,
a witness to her demise as she
turned pallor and stank.
His finger locked and clenched
within as reflections of her wild
eyed outbursts causing him to
sin, sending worms flushing
through that nose for the asp
to ravenously digest, as she
slipped into hell without even
Let this artist turn his face,
and the brush strokes be his prize,
while this orb stuck so strikingly
remains a reminder to all, do not
mix hemlock with oils as they
both will be your demise.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2013. All Rights Reserved.