Journals of Lord Malinov

the poetry of madness

whorls

"I love your hair," she said.  "Can I touch it?"

"Sure," I replied with a laugh.  Her fingers burrowed into my curls.

"So soft," she purred.

Fondled by another stranger, a birthday girl with a warble and demure smile.  We staggered home.

There are times when I remember the things he did
When I know that he will die
Not yet, but soon
Recompense must be paid
with fool's blood

Through me, retribution for the sins
Their sins
Foul, ugly infected sins
The dagger slides into festering flesh
Freedom in wretched release

He, daring to wrong me, dares no more.  May his ashes be scattered on a well-travelled road, obliterated for all eternity.

Take back Christmas!

M

posted by: Malinov at 07:54 | link | comments (3) |

Comments:

#1  21 December 2005 - 18:46

 

I want to touch your curls too...

solyluna

#2  24 December 2005 - 12:49

 

be careful what you wish for . . . one touch and nothing will ever be the same again . . . ;)

Malinov

#3  24 December 2005 - 23:50

 

somehow I knew that but the desire still lingers...so,

*closing my eyes*

I wish to touch your curls...

*opening eyes*

did it happen yet?

solyluna

Comments: