by: Micah Parker

Voluptuous, vivaciously exotic;

The dawn sets and her spikes grow old

like the old man’s toll with sweat,

glistening in the night’s forthcoming.

I can’t recall a time when she hadn’t

visited me and my inner bubbles of personality,

casually planting and breeding my inner sanctum,

producing waves of fetuses born into casualties.

Lola, roamer of the night who walks the planks.

She lusts for thou roads of sinful behavior and

corrupt cynical matter. But, can you blame her?

Sin is addictive, tasteful, free and liberating with no

fluid ounce of remorse or reaction to a complex reality.

“Lola, Lola! Reign me before your juices run

out of me,” I say.

It was in that moment that my range of

sensitivity turned to a cold, bitter death.

My eyes now shunned towards a cobalt blue.

My lips, shriveled like dying flower petals and

tinted in a hot pink color.

I’m a victim of her loneliness and a pit stop

for her lustful desires to crawl and blossom.

There is no more in me to fight. No space

left for my arms to withhold the blows

hurled towards me. Her might and beauty

weakens the soles of my feet and tremor takes place.

My body is no more and I cannot sleep

for she allures me through the depths of the

sea and lullabies lying in the deep.

Thus, I am made with no soul to keep.

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