Final Gift
by Sam M. Phillips

The demon takes his time on me,
Provokes the slime in me,
Pushes down the sublime wish to be free,
You dish out visions of schism and cataclysms,
Revealing what is hidden,
Dealing in the forbidden,
I do your bidding,
Opening the lid on Pandora’s box,
Releasing bile and pox,
You are disease and unease,
Your presence I must appease,
And tease out the meaning,
The reason you’re leaning
On top of me,
It’s you I see,
And it fills me with hate,
Always too late
To close up the lid,
Already I’ve slid
And hid the true extent
Of your vicious vent,
It’s lent me a sinuous strength,
I’ll go to any length
To put this to bed
And get you out of my head,
But I’m dead,
With you alive in my brain,
The strain is too much
To restrain you as such,
I clutch at the chance to limit you,
To pivot through this convoluted concourse,
This polluted recourse
That I’m reduced to,
I may yet be able to seduce you
With some tempting sacrifice,
Some voluptuous vice,
To entice you,
I invite you
Into a vision of sex and hex,
Humanity at its best,
Nothing less
Than true spirit on display,
A preening pet with which to play,
They are left screaming in disarray,
I am scheming as I pray
For you to fall too
And leave me for a time,
Distracted death throe mime,
As sublime chime sounds in the deep,
Hellish hounds sent to reap your soul,
Swallow you whole,
Keep you and seep inside you,
Suffuse and bind you,
Through and through,
A final gift
From me to you.

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