PASAGMAN

PASAGMAN

She sits in grave silence, pond’ring the notion.
She’s what he created with bittersweet potion.
She saw in the shadows, just what was to come.
Yet helpless resistance took over emotion.

Time gathered its seconds and bartered for days.
He knows that it’s painful, as on her he preys.
Sadistic narcissist? Just what has he done?
He knows where to poke at the matter that’s gray.

She waits in the still; center turning to stone.
She gazes at visions of his face alone.
She seeks out her God, to find what is amiss,
He then pulls out his knife, on a rock he will hone.

Time squeezes its fat, little hands ‘round her skull,
As he whiles and then waits for her senses to dull.
She hungers for him to return her to bliss,
Though she knows all too well, that his cup is not full.

She worshiped the God, who brought him so near,
Then she cursed him; decided he was not so dear.
He’ll rue this one day, that which he’d not let be.
When realized by him, oh, the loss it will sear.

As days turn to weeks and to months and to years,
He sees what he’s done and is driven to tears.
He queries his God, “Why did I not see,
this bestowal of grace would allay all my fears?”

Lola St. Marcos