tarry the
thoughts of overwrought speech
Dissection
to the point of murder
wreaks
the havoc of a blood sucking leech
The reluctant evangelist preaches
“Don’t
over till the soil, must be precisely”
Standing, cloaked in widow shrouds
looking
beyond, feeling indecisively
Their
tongues are meat hooks thrashing
believing
their words hold utmost meaning...
never
knowing unseen incidents
For
in the shadows, their demons are teeming
“Hold
thy sword, better is of silence!”
the
shy man of cloth beseeches and begs
“Resist
any admiring advance your way...
turn
immediately and shut your legs.”
The
devouring devotee nears the shrouded
hovering
as smoky vulture or ashen crow
Layered
in bitter gold and icy silk
the
admirer will only blanket with show
“Oh
my, tell me of your skill...
it
is obvious and honors my very eyes.”
Tempting
praise and luring tongue
follows
with oohs, ahs and lustrous sighs
The
shrouded submits to devious regard
forgetting
the frail friar’s sermon of late
Choosing
in small action to play
opening
ears wide to the devious gate
Caught
with hook to inner cheek
reeled
focus to cement the devotee’s ploy
Coddling
the shroud’s social infancy...
of
the companionship to seemingly enjoy
The
sickly coyote will soon abandon
after
discovering the absence of tasty crumb
Jaunting
off to some new horizon
leaving
the victim scorned and even more numb
Aye,
the scavenger lurks in pain
seeking
only those equal or less than he
The
fragile minister utters in low
“I
should always listen to the advice from me.” 
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