IV
You’ve escaped, my prose and I'm sorry you are dead. You quietly undid the doors on a moonless night and snuck out, leaving a goodbye note underneath a rock. I believe you were last seen in the boondocks as a captive of ruffians, enslaved, beaten and flattened to taste.
There was so much I still wanted to say to you, my lamb… I could have tried to explain. Why you were sick and untouchable… and you had to die running or retreat on some hill, to be destroyed by a cyclone, lightning, hunger and fallout. Why you had to go.
I was wrong too. Saw you, marauding, running with a bunch of strangers, thugs, ragtag sleaze, intoxicated imbeciles and genius fiends… notorious, burlesque… dancers, depraved priests, the source and summit of antique liturgies in back alleys fit for murder… You were the death of the party, the life of life. I didn’t know.
I saw you crawling like a snake, sliding in the dirt, hissing… believing no longer in the company of friends… with fangs to kill, relying on your senses, precision and ambush. Naturally, I was misguided: I thought you were the scaly beast, the dusty venomous worm shedding its skin in the grass. So wrong… When I found out, it was too late and you were gone…you weren’t the snake: you were the skin!
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