I remember the
bright, sullen days,
when, familiar as blood,
he slipped effortlessly
through razor thin
blades of deceit.
They warned us,
young keepers
of the garden, but
as you might remember,
we refused their
preternatural gambit.
By summoning hiss
he conjured fears and
hot, sulfuric tears,
turning our
pyre of passion into
a smoldering disaster.
Then feigning injury
and taking sudden,
terrified leave,
the slithering seraph
fled beyond,
without us.
Until we meet again,
foe-friend,
may searing
eternal light
chase you far,
far away.
Michael James Fitzgerald
