1614, August 21

by Stephen Paden

The young girls call to me again
when I sleep, but they remain hid
and I cannot breathe their pungent air
quite like I once did

Nor see their faces
in the walls, behind the bars
I cannot feel their pain
nor see their scars

My bath is far too late
my skin grows old and frail
my uncle lied, mislead this girl
and led me into Hell

To bathe in pure elixir, red
Iā€™d sell my soul to Him
a price already paid, in blood
and long-forgotten limbs

The floor is calling out to me
but further will I go that way
my breath, its last unheard by men
this year, this month, this day

4 thoughts on “1614, August 21

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