Words make a path to my
Tongue more silent and
Venomous than any sudden
Flood of tears.
Groping.
Violent urges
Curl my fingers into fists.
Death grips me and gnaws
At my pride.
Fervid, I am –
Frustrated.
Strung out across the boundaries
Of utopia
While the diabolical vicar
Cackles.
Must I grovel as you gibe?
My ephemeral folly
Finds me grappling
With infamy.
I find this affinity for evil
Base effrontery.
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