A Traitor's Treachery

A Traitor's Treachery

~~ ~~~ ~~

Treachery's Consequence

A sword drawn
pressed into ivory skin
sweet with tears and ripe soap.

Wrenched back
under the grip of soldiers
their trench-coat pockets
filled with traitors
and other people's tongues.

A blockade of treachery
comes out to meet
some weary journey
that is almost at an end.

It fears for itself
a stranger to disappearance.

They never thought it would feel this way
like burning copper
tearing away inside flesh
that would feed a flame
so much stronger than the diamond islands.

There are always more, though,
to carry on a violent tradition
each with their swords drawn before
the consequence
is truly comprehended
or understood.

~~ ~~~ ~~

He was branded a traitor before he'd even begun. Who could say when it started?

At birth, his slate grey eyes blinking in the harsh reality of day. Traitor.

At six, small and pretty, mistaken for a girl, hiding in his closet with shame while an angry breast tore him apart from the inside. Traitor.

At ten, still seeking refuge in his closet, between his winter jacket and polished shoes, the dark slats filled with groves that he knew by heart, the beast, now bored, tearing him apart from the outside. Traitor.

At sixteen, hiding behind scarlet curtains, filling his soul with the groves of his hipbones, his tongues, his sleek feet and ungraceful elbows that seemed to always dance in the way. Traitor.

The beast had to stop sometime surely...there had to be some escape, some desperate release that would appear, magically, and whisk him away.

Or could it smell the fear in his veins? The traitor in him.

Was it branded on his body somewhere; branded with forbidden kisses and stifled moans; etched on with discarded silk and worn cotton; bound up with some unforeseen hunger that come rushing though his veins that smelt suspiciously like Desire.

Traitor.

He had lost the war before he's even begun.

Traitor.

What would be his price?

Traitor.

All was lost.

~~ ~~~ ~~

Journey

A road
drifting towards the wolves' howl
and dark nights
woven overhead.

A poet's tongue
wound their roads together,
still swept with the
dandelions spreading
light seeds to the wind,
hot with summer's
elation.

A tune
would bear its cross
to meet a poet's tongue
a visitor
for a long journey
home.

~~ ~~~ ~~

The moon continued to rise even long after he'd gone. He had simply gone, and taken Pleasure and Consequence with him; three lonely souls travelling somewhere Dark.

He had prayed otherwise.

Wept.

Pleaded.

Begged.

Risen his hands in homage as if that alone could save him and the hungry mouth that had consumed, feasted him so readily would return, hidden under the safety of wool blankets and cotton sheets of his bed.

He had prayed to the Man-On-The-Moon, whispering thought his dreams that he loved this elegant creature...that he didn't care about the beast, he didn't want to beast; it only needed to be them. Only them far away, sipping on lemonade on some sunny beach, sliding together, hands clasped in holier-than-thou communion.

But his One was marked. Traitor.

Whispered in his sleep. Traitor.

Forgiven a thousand times. Traitor.

The moon had defied him. Ignored his protests. Send the little traitor home...home to the beast, the closet door, and himself.

There could be no miracle tonight.

~~ ~~~ ~~

- finished -