Unlikely Tomorrows

She walks alone
Into the gaping maw,
To wrest from fangs
The scraps of hope,
That will sustain
The weak, spineless,
Fools who desire
Comfort and solace,
Whatever the price
To her soul and
Her conscience.
Trembling, crying,
But resolute and
Defiant, to stand
Firm and deliver
This twisted freak
His few moments of
Dominion over
Her body, but not,
Ever, never a
Moment’s mastery
Over her quietly
Shining spirit,
For it is not her
Soul which here
Diminishes and
Withers, but the
Beings of those who
Know where she goes
And yet do nothing
To relieve her of
This duty, this
Curse, this dark,
Horrific thing
Which will gnaw at
Her very soul,
Until the moment
She breathes her
Last gasping

Who are these
Fine, strong men
Who let women crawl
Into bondage and
Depredation so
Their masculine
Souls remain free
Of the filth and
The taint of men
Sinking to their
Own knees and doing
What must be done,
To make peace for
Themselves, not
For the others,
Instead content
To let her go forth
In fear and searing
Trepidation to
Build up wounds
Anew and new scars
Upon old scars
And new nightmares
Upon old dreams.
Why are they not
Upon their own
Scarred knees to
Slurp the demon
Seed and submit
To dark impulses
In the hope of
Finding passage
Through one more
Dark day to some
Distant, fading
Dream, like some
Perfectly quiet,
still, peaceful,
And increasingly
Unlikely tomorrow.

April 27, 2007
Kings Mountain, NC

Dedicated to Starla Lynn Darnell

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