The fury and the fight
I smell the demon on his tounge
It lubricates the item, for which he’s bought and paid
I feel the caution in the company of the other; it’s obvious in his touch
In the alcoholic haze his reasoning has been withered
But even in inebriation he remembers what she did.
He remembers the hurt he felt
He remembers how after 12 years he found out; he fell in love with a whore.
He revels in the memory of the whore’s fist pounding at the door
He’s aggrieved as he bethinks the splashing of his tears on the cold cherry wood floor
In this moment the hurt he feels can only be mend by the touch of a stranger
Or so he thinks
As he begins to use what he’s bought, he feels his eyes begin to water
He knows this isn’t revenge, he knows this isn’t right
He pulls put
500 dollars walks out
And there he is on the floor, feeling discarded and used
Realizing sanity has slipped his grasp
Thinking of how the whore lay snug, and smug in bed.
The sweat from his pores pours cold
Erasing dreams of the two growing old
He listens to the lies the walls speak
The passion the sheets sing
The promises his heart wrote with his lips in front of 97 witnesses
It seems irrelevant as he watches the fire rise up the walls
The smoke fills his lungs and the fire loosed his soul
The whore watches as her last chance goes up in smoke
Knowing redemption has slipped from her grasp
