John Kipling Lewis
nothing left to
deliver to hell.
Empty soul cage, open
without hope or remorse
for the sins committed. Early
Moonrise stilled her heart beat
for the third time. Killing her
silently without the parade she deserved.
Her eyes are a stained glass window of tears.
Pale lips fluttering over her last sigh.
Her breath repulsing the butterfly which hovered above.
Golden skin tarnishing in Death's Rapture, worthy lover
for the sinner she had become. Her redemption lost.
Saturation of pleasure embraced, Myth's Heaven faded without note.
As Moonfall silenced light's dance upon her face, nothing remained
of her life, of heaven or hell, nothing save pleasure.
(co-authored with Katherine Tombeau, June 10,1997)
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