A whisper here,
a thought there,
little things
everywhere.
Fear — sweet, sweet seduction.
The Devil’s Bloom, I call it.
Riding on a mighty high-horse,
dressed in glitters of your mediocrity.
A table for two,
the dinner of a lifetime,
a righteous feast.
Perfected just for you.
Oh, the details —
impeccable.
It’s beginning like a seed.
Its end, a carnival of colorful despair,
each thought tap-dancing
on your quivering heart.
But I reckon,
the bloom withers
if you don’t water it.
And only those who’ve knelt
in hell’s defiance
would dare,
point and say:
“Hades is that way.”
GallopingCrazy 