Email Poem

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Poem

She--- a demon 
She--- a witch
She--- must be torched,
Thought--- the women,
For she,
Their men bewitched
Loving what has no heart-
To love back,
She, comes still
Taking what she can, taking, until--
She has met the devil's hand--
The change of seasons came too early...


A smell of a unique summer flower
Dying in the season of winter
She crippled her tone
Begging the season for kindness
As she sat watching old shows
Craving moments of only-God-knows
If she went outside, the wolves would howl
And hate once more would siren through
If not solitude then who else
To name a companion,
Summer and her temperates, 
dried the final leaf 
Withered to dust, gone, 
When the wind filled the shadows.

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