a matter of convenience only;
keys lost or bent,
tumblers not engaged.
no twisting to define
that rusty mechanism.
the flood will pound it
to pieces.
it cannot be dammed
or tamed, or diverted.
thriving in that tumult
is a creature of nightmare.
love? it is called love?
love then is no angel.
hands of a cherub, perhaps,
but fanged reptilian face,
hatchet eyes to
decapitate reason,
all shiny and flat
with madness simpering.
and fingers ceaselessly
picking apart the seams.
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