work in progress..

dionysus lurks
at mid-hours
taunting our blood
with flesh:
games not yet done
for small boys to play.

the head of the creature
his mind, animal
as his gift.

he comes
to tear us,
yet marks his own.

his soapy disposition
scratches raw,
his hubris as grimey
as the surface,
his ideals.

he looks
as stale wine
not a red-drop out of place
but a sour taste
that lingers,
desperation.

what of the woman,
more defiant that he;
the lovers that bind;
the child whose innocence he rapes,
waking frightened
in a wall-less room.
the other, both woman
and child
who plays to the game
fueled by anger////////////I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS NEXT BUT I AM VERY VERY HAPPY WITH THIS NEW PIECE :)