Her Season

I find myself at the Holiday Inn soaping in the shower, shes covered up, what a withered old hag. Hope Preaching Network plays in the background and the conniving devil commences in herding around his religion. The grapes were good and the glasses stand in rows upon rows. A young boy is outside picking apples, shes in here, and I, awaiting to fill ourselves, but cordial Sanders, whose been waiting on a thought keeps going.

Shes a sticky hand and I am her blind shopkeeper. Her legs spread open in her mini and I with my newly conditioned head, listen to her whining air and see her out. I'll fix her hounding for smack. She'll store away her tourniquet and bath among the eaves of her contorted Eden. She will be the breeder of her enslavement and I shall tax her about her course. There she stares dismally at the mackuling of time.

I ask where youth has gone and she answers me back the question. Then she says don't think, just be, as the Rein of her fog kills her off slowly. I kiss her cheek and the silence eases her away. She'll float awhile but make her final peace at the bottom of a wet bed. About her slumber the garden will be toiled and her laughter found again in song.