Saturday, 11 January 2014

The slowest way to kill a man

whose sullen frame now weary lies,
that hopes in vain that 'fore he dies;
a visit 'pon what former light,
that now betrays his very eyes?

troubled beats erratic hear,
with tempo; flitting fluttered flailed,
what made that your all life depart,
a shell so empty, cracked and frail?

in silence since this gentleman,
his eyes as dead as his black pen,
his suit is rugged, elbows torn,
his faded jeans of ten years worn;
of years are thirty, young and bold,
his heart, however, is much more old.

as next door flits his maiden fair,
who dances dervished with young flair;
from man to man she flits anew,
their lusts run through her ebon hair.

allegro music to the beat,
with lyrics; sickly sorrow sweet,
between which exchanged lustful quips,
her body tastes more than her lips.

yet none to blame, not of her souls,
how could one who such beauty holds?
with infinite sapphire wishes,
and right to break all promises.

perfection is the young girl's world,
her eyes shine bronzed like tarnished pearls,
her skin, soft as a languished wave,
her mind like lenses made concave,
of sweet ambrosia, honey, milk,
her words, her heart, softer than silk,
a velveteen rich garment worn,
as is her rose that to his thorn.

so begs the question, to be asked,
that set upon said maiden's task,
what knavish, shadowed, sleight of hand,
is slowest way to kill a man?

a silent blade between his ribs, precisely she'd have stung?
or coffee laced with curare, to whet his parched white tongue?
a silver bullet for his heart? against his temple's vein?
perhaps a tragic accident, a car crash in the rain?
a jolt, a scare, designer drugs to make his heart palpate?
what heart infarct or from a stroke, to seal his undeserved fate?
a hired hand, one of her men, her lover as her will,
to garrotte at his troubled neck, to hurt, to maim, to kill?

maybe something more subtle, to throw off all the cops?
or serve his body to her hounds in little bits and chops?
for evidence is meaningless when you can have your way,
but none of these will take too long, so tell me this, i pray:
what would you think a best way for the maiden's heartless whim
to slowly kill her gentleman, while barely touching him?

the answer - one that she has known,
that gives him life and takes his own,
is not to harm his corporeal;
by not to brandish or to wield,
in arms , with strike - these aren't the means;
so's not the cancer in his genes;
'tis not to kick him in his low -
here's how to kill a man so slow:

give him promise, give your heart, your love to which he'll throb and ache,
then take it back, with all his, too, and of himself his own will break;

within ten years, or better still, between thirty and who-knows-when,
what better way to break a soul, the slowest way to kill a man.

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