Death’s Dame

Bored
vapid eyes
tap tap
phone holds attention
picture
text
quick like
social media
sucked in
appearances can deceive.
Full 
slick
ruby red lips
voluptuous 
clinging 
siren dress
stilletos
matching lips
black abyss 
upon bottom
sneer
crossing legs
drawing men’s gaze
oh so simple
gaining access.
Old men’s game
sipping ages old 
gorging on elegant past
egos bloated 
syphilis demented
entrenched 
religious ideals
while in the corner
death demurely waits.
Passions rise.
Sweat 
creases foreheads
runs from jowls bled
grasping straws
breath soon fading
squabbles disdained
watching with dispassion
each
does
drop 
until 
one raises feeble hand.
Phone is down.
Gun is drawn.
Last one sighted
deep breath 
squeeze
bye bye 
all are now dead.
 
©Oct. 2/20
Picture via Pinterest

He’s Mine

“He’s Mine!”

“No, He’s Mine!”

Voices raised

screaming match

petulant siblings

unwilling to compromise.

Tugged

back and forth

seesawing motion

‘He’s Mine’

tried to struggle free.

Screams

turn to shrieks

single handed punches

finally calling forth

mama’s roaring voice.

“He’s Mine”

Tugged right.

“No He’s Mine”

Tugged left.

‘That’s enough!’

mama roared.

“Stop squabbling.

Over a little man!

Let him go right now!”

Sudden fright

sisters dropped

‘He’s Mine’

to the floor.

‘He’s mine’

wasted no time

fleeing the scene.

Quick glance

reassured

he would be a toy no more.