She Prays for Me

A WNW Poem

She’s right,

always right,

preaching on

our shared mortal’s

shoulder,

reciting psalms

whenever he begins to follow me:

casting his eyes on another,

cheaping his existence by going the easier route,

she’s there,

a hell,

stubborn, nagging,

beautiful -

She lifts her gaze to me,

waiting for me to press,

and I am burned,

damned again,

possessed with the idea

of an angel and me -

living together, in peace.

“The Lord tests his strongest soldiers,”

she whispers, her eyes still on me,

not in the way a heretic watches snakes,

but in the way a hand is held out to a doubter,

hopeful.

Brimstone sears my hesitation

spurring me to counter,

with the spell that is,

“Just

this

once,”

feeling my stomach twist

as she frowns,

as if betrayed,

as if she could save me,

as if little her,

wearing the blanket sheet and the tin halo,

can pull me out of this pit

I dug myself into so long ago.

I am a demon.

I was a man,

now that has been swallowed

and barred deep in my marrow,

defeated.

You see my pride, my ego, my hunger,

and it’s as ugly as the forked tongues of snakes

and fires and -

“This isn’t you,” she says to my mortality,

rapturing me out of my senses.

I imagine her halo choking around my throat

as I wait, held in her green eyes,

her eyebrows furrow as she stares,

praying for me.

*

*

The Word Not World Series (WNW) is an interactive anthology where, once a week, I share a photo and peers give me words that inspired them. The requests are listed below:

“Defeated,” was from David on FB.

*

Enjoyed this piece? Consider supporting my work on Buy Me A Coffee or on Substack

to keep the words flowing! Thank you for your support.

*

Artwork: "Backroads Angel" by artist, Kritastrophe.