Baron

Christian in Gomorrah

“Do you love me?” She said
as she rested her head on my shoulder.
The party behind us,
her eyes soft and lustrous;
beguiling, concealing
the truth of her feelings;
heart of ice that would only
grow colder.

An angel of death sang
enchanting refrains, while she whispered soft
promise of free love and
the sound of the rock band;
rhythmic, pulsating,
an abyss awaiting
blind dancers, who chasse
together.

Two gay guys were seeking
a way of revealing their unknown truths
from their own jaded hearts,
caught in their faded arts;
gyrating and spinning,
their end just beginning;
the curtain call bringing
exposure.

When she fell to the floor,
it was worship directed at all men
who’d been there and tried her,
their lives sold beside her;
she offered no answers
to blind fools and chancers;
sad puppets and prancers
she bartered.

When they cut off her head
and left her for dead, in the whirlpool dream
where she slaughtered all
who had answered her call,
another head grew there,
spat chagrin and despair,
and spoke of the nowhere
awaiting.

Robert Staniford