by S.A. Prince (SAGPrince@aol.com)
This may be my anecdotal reprise, writing my way out of suicide while running circles in the maze of demise. The unrelenting assault of underworldy suggestion and insidious persuasion would break the strongest of men into a torrential of tears. Lord save me now from antiquated personalities that taint my soul definition, for they are many, they are legions. Desdemoda my debutante suffocated at the hands of her lover, a trachea tragedy, and here I’m left to bathe in the blood of my guilt, the other me choosing instead to smear the torrid red wet in celebratory triumph. Continuum, I don’t trust myself loving you, only to conquer until I hold your still beating cardiovascular entity in the rough of my scorched hand. It is the beguile, the moment you realize that you only love a part of me, but you’re stuck with all of me. Delving into the rancor of the hapless you ask for a refund on time, but the clock has no return policy; it merely tics on. And this is another dead end off whose cliff we jettisoned into the valley of debauchery. And at this time in the car that was once fresh off the lot like our love, with vitriol it has been torn asunder after rolling down the jagged rocks of the breakup, and at this time I will turn to you my “new” Desdemoda, a leaky red trickle tumbling from your crown to your lips, and I will pass judgement upon you before we burst into a crisp.
* Picture Credit: Les portraits peints de Harding Meyer