FINALITY AVE.

The acrid lure of temptation
barbs in twine about my neck,
blithe and pitiless,
darkly mortal.

Each metal cuff,
sucked deep from the recess of fertile breath
waking sacred days of pretend -
too squeezed from morbid juices
‘cross thick calloused treads.

Alas, even sacrifice seems
insatiably tantalizing
like the spinning wheel threads
of veiled spider’s web
nimbly draped upon
the chain of my bond -
thrust from this gaping world fever
into the next -
bottomless amour…

to bleed no more.



@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).