221.

The marks of her chains
hold you, an indelible
embrace's hostage.

220.

Only voodoo can
do justice to the union
of all held within.

219.

Crawling along the
meaning of a slow heartbeat,
stuttering under

the weight of its own
anchor. Where shovels have dug
so deep, just psalms work.

218.

Each flutter of tongue,
making me beg for either
salvation or scars.

217.

I tend to run from
the seduction of how you
speak soft in razors.

216.

Those moments flew like
they had wings when the seconds
counted them as ticked.

215.

As the shimmering
excuse for night showed that your
eyes were etched stones from

a cemetery,
tomorrow's voodoo couldn't
retrieve time marked from.