A flirtatious guise will not save you,
dear sweet Jezebel–
you should know your painted face
does nothing for me now.
I will push you from that lofty perch,
watch the horses tear you apart
with callous words and cutting glances;
the dogs will lap at your wounds,
leave you on the cobblestones
with those wicked hands
and that thick twisted skull.
And when the rains prepare
to wash your blood-red lips
from my desecrated mind,
only then shall I confess
I once cared for you.
Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved