This night’s lady –
Too casually-chosen perhaps –
So-soon satiated, flutters
Easily between fantasy and sleep. And
I, alone, am conscious, again, of the
Anaconda in the witch-hour bedroom.
The one that seeks the carbon dioxide I exhale,
Brushes my exposed skin in invisible passing;
Realising that, at long-last, I will be all-out
Of resistance when the judgement-jaws gape and
Fangs fashioned like no-absolution lightning
Lay bare my soul and fasten on my very core, pointing
The way; the only way – to Perdition …
To Perdition – and beyond!