starts with his voice,
like a worm in your head,
His whispers,
like Crisp fingernails pulling thread.
He lives in the sounds,
of the rustle in the trees,
And the whaling of the dog,
And the whistle
Of the thistle's in the breeze.
He is the dark in the fog,
And with his promise and his pleas,
Like a Siren on the rocks,
As she sings to the seas.

He will play on your mind,
Like that song you admire,
With ponders of hate,
And suspicion and fire.
And as weeks turn to months,
As the changes transpire,
Your soul fades to black,
Tangled up in the Mire.

Some might break free,
with a family at home,
But he chose you because,
Of the fact you're alone!.
So you sit in your stains,
getting drained to the bone,
Torn and stripped like a ship,
He pulled close to the stones.

Now you're a vessel,
Like a common glass jar,
your bile turns to black
And it bubbles like Tar.
There's no more Denial,
You're his black little Star,
He was made to invade,
To defile and to scar.

When he is finished,
You're no more than a Husk,
You've been stripped of your value,
Like a brittle old Tusk.
Just a scatter of bones,
To Meagre for crows,
Only food for his moths,
In your linens and clothes.
© James Moynihan