Damned
Cold and damp an upturned chair
A chill that aches at finger tips
Despairing of warmth and cozy fare
Alone with naught save these poker chips
In piles among the dagger there
Point driven into the corded whip
Blood still red from its wicked wear
The poor soul lays eyes wide his lips
Intoning a final shock of fear
The wound was mortal a defensive zip
To jugular against the whip's flashing blur
He stumbled back in death's firm grip
While I sat with sad and hollow cheer
My speed and life in an instant rip
Where he lay dead and I appear
Victor this cold and empty night bereft
Of soul forever lost to God's kind ear
Alone with nought save these poker chips
Poetry by josephus
Read 445 times
Written on 2020-01-21 at 02:30
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