Feverish the Hex

Feverish The Hex The root of the melancholy he has not always known, and perhaps, with strangers and with unknown strangeness, he has embraced its love and loved its hateful wounds. He prides the strength resting his bones, the iron-glove that wields power grasped in his haste to taste its honeyed glow, anticipation seeds ever greater destruction as horrific night dreams eat into oblivion. The root of the melancholy she has occasionally known, and surely, among bitter foe and boon companions lost, she has lurched painfully from it and pained herself yet more. Blind to the curse, she begs for more sharpening blades to spew the red, eager for battle yet fearful the result she prays dark gods lend power, not gold, as dawn awaits its inevitable relief. The wounds of devils not false but gods surely true persist within the marrow of abject, seething, mortal slaves, and morbidly caress and torment, and the leaves are bitter as the root. For in realms of dark - thirst so consumes that even the chaff born from regret, this the black seeds do replenish; ever deeper moans from heartache and woes resounding echoes from piercing stabs. The hex is feverish as its birth. A collaboration, Robert J. Lindley and Lawrence Sharp Free verse, 10-27-2018 Note- My dear friend , it is such a great honor to compose with you this our third free verse collaboration. Each time you astound me with the immense creativity, depths, and exquisite beauty of your verses.