Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Poem: The Love of a Woman

The Love of a Woman

In the words of a great man, 
my father and Lord of the Eastern Marches, 
the love of a woman is the greatest thing
after that, all other things are a distant concern.

While I have never doubted this before, 
I admit a hesitation at the moment. 
It is a great concern here, in my bedroom as I have just awoken.
My eyes blink in the semi-darkness of dawn
But the knife to my throat brings me to full consciousness
She is here to kill me, but I can't help but love her.

She is wrapped in black silk, 
traditional garb of the Ismali assassins. 
Only her eyes are visible and what eyes they are! 
They are obsidian, black pupils on black irises. 
And the fierceness! Oh... it is like a tiger watching its prey.

I don't know what I have done to deserve that look, 
I knew, I would do it again every day of the rest of my life.
I imagine our life together and meeting her family. 
I wonder which parent has her eyes. 
I hope it is her mother, for two angels are better than one. 
I KNOW I will get along with her parents. 
I will make every effort.

If the assassin’s client pays extra,
To taunt and torment the victim, 
In the most blatant show of contempt 
the assassin remove their mask 
before striking the killing blow. 
A slow ritual, the assassin removes their mask 
as they hold the knife to your throat. 
I wait in anticipation, 
so hoping that the client has paid the maximum sum.
The fee is exorbitant. I have paid it before

Yes, my heart hammers heavily and I see 
she begins to unwind the silk strip, slowly, 
With utmost precision and control, anticlockwise, 
I always remain in sight. 
It comes away revealing what is sure to be a glorious face.

No... she's not really my type.

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