Hello Splinkervillians! I came SOOOOOO close to ensnaring --- er, I mean enticing -- a scantily clad woman with my last poem. But in the end, she slipped away and I was left holding ... nothing. Yeah, that's it. Nothing.
I have to admit, I'm getting a little concerned. I mean, Sloth was hot enough to turn ice into cream. If that couldn't get a woman of questionable standards to throw herself at me, I don't know what will.
Well, nothing I can do about it now. In for a penny, in for a pound. So without further ado, or any ado for that matter, I give you the seventh deadly sin:
ANGERYou gave me everything, delivered with a hungry mouth.
All taken away, erased
by a few words.
Lips that poured forth and lips that took in
sharp, electric pleasures.
Now withdrawn, thin, petulant.
you crushed my sanctuary.
with so few words;
the work of hands meant for dark caresses.
The gentlest of touches every now and again
were all I desired.
And you took them away.
Now it's winter and I am old,
warmed only by memory.
My fingers stiff and numb,
unable to hold onto anything.
Not even anger.