charity

the devils talons crawl out
like bull ants
from the edge of insanity's sand mound
only the hole in the center showing darkness
the rest brown and dry and hot
with the showering of sun drops
raining down and spilling over my shoulders
as i kneel at the edge
perched to devour each black nail
like a thirst starved scorpion
ready to eat all that i can
nibble and chip away at the polish
that can not be removed
brimstone black number 666
polish of choice by
beelzebub's manicurist
like crusted blood it could not get darker
unless there was no light left
colors fleeing the field
like helmeted men fearing
the barbed wire and mustard gas streams
on a field in 1916
no crosses
no victory
no scorpion
just a man lending the devil a hand