bad wine

She had sought to escape the trap she had escaped into, to leave the fertile fields of North Texas for the mountain desert of Las Vegas, to embrace, socially destructive and morally corrupting the freedom of youthful joy. Running free, naked, alive, away from the dense madman who held her in his grip. Until one fated night he managed in a drunken fit to plant his seed, when he ticks and when he tocks, please don’t try to fade this, in her fertile belly, trapping her forever in his mad domain. I smell like I sound. She looked out into tomorrow to find nothing for her but the love of a child, fashioned from a mad man in the head of a drunken night, tastes like bad wine, life is so strange.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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