HOUR 20 The Caged Bird’s Aria

The Caged Bird’s Aria

Dependent on the doting demon that enslaved me,
Crippled by his steady hand, pain thwarted,
By that which he administers cautiously,
Ensuring perpetual imprisonment.

Dyer-Bolique removed an unwanted lower limb,
Chaining body and soul indefinitely to him,
His silent whispers mouth ‘no pain.’
Singing in his steel cage.

In his sights before I knew of his shadowy existence,
Targeting his kindred spirit, only to cage her,
That was always YOUR design!

Words of surrender no longer pass my lips,
It is given wordlessly, and enforced aggressively,
Duplicitous Dyer-Bolique; protector and prison guard.

Still, he shares his torture of others with me,
Still, he touches me with rapturous passion,
Driven by the thrill of my defeat.
Swollen with my suffering.

I do not speak, but I sing to appease his fervent ire,
The dulcet melody disarms his fortifications,
And I please him with my passionate tones.

Day and night merge, submission is a waiting game,
And the opportune moment arrives,
As he descends to our basement,
I try to flee.

Thee chair so thoughtfully given, drives forth,
Towards the unguarded portcullis,
The key is turned quietly,
Handle pulled down,
Door manipulated…

As freedom calls to the caged bird within,
His shadow looms behind me.

HOUR 19 The Magic of Puree Pathology

The Magic of Puree Pathology

Table set for two, romantic in candlelight,
Subtly dimming your true intentions,
Flickering souls tarnished by night,
Dazed by your misdirection.

Shock sets in, and passes over me, a whisper,
Lovers speaking in hushed dusk tones,
Serving my sibling, unwelcome offer,
But a grim offering none the less.

Heaving on each mouthful, my insides taut,
Eyes pleading heartfelt with you to stop,
Lust and sadism indistinguishable,
And I serve both masters.

Pulsating inside as you watch my tears,
Always manipulating my weakness,
Relishing every mouthful forced,
Rising to my suffering.

The meal is complete, but this is initiation.
I sense that your plans run deeper,
Advantageous secrets,
Trust misplaced,
My downfall.

Gazing, love and fear’s cocktail, into your dark eyes,
I attempt once again to gain your absent mercy,
‘Dyer-Bolique, with higher hand and magic art,
You have won.
I submit to your will as you wish,
But plead that you show mercy.’

HOUR 18 The Trickster

The Trickster

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
Attended as my patient, faking closure,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Scales fall from my eyes, blinded by vanity,
Arrogance’s pride.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his pledge,
A mask of irony worn to our first supper,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see,
Yet guided my culinary feast, my plan anticipated.
Hubris’s guide.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Turning feigned paranoia into trust,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Manipulated the hunt, but his cold heart chose me.
Desire’s disdain.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique made his turn,
Fogging my mind with self-doubt and fear,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Twisted my hand, forced the game to proceed yet still,
Chose me.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
Embraced the test, for his friend he had no heed,
Allowed me to see what he wanted me to see.
Pushed my weakened limits, possession his intention,
Tricked me.

The trickster Dyer-Bolique won with prestige,
‘In honor of a game won fairly and played well,
I surrender my life to my now captor’s hands,
And only ask that the mercy in your heart does swell.’

HOUR 15 Her Poker Face

Her Poker Face

Dyer-Bolique drags the pickled remains to the alter,
And carves the marinaded meat,
Without hesitation, without consideration,
Frozen in the realms of a psychopath.

Observing, an internal alarm creeps over my mind,
Tarnished by his researched request,
So alike in thought and deed that he anticipated my every move,
And forced the Blackjack into my shaking palm.

Tender slices fall from nostalgia’s thundery storm,
Bagged and stored in ice, as the remains catch fire,
Fuel and food, such hollow words from my own being.
Dyer-Bolique in name, diabolique in nature.

Our abode heats up furiously, fueled by his anhedonia,
Trapped like a rabbit forced between the headlights,
I acquiesce in deed, though my mind cries from its depths.
The call is made, my brother comes.

Jon, the younger cherub, in youth under my protection,
Unable to envisage any harm upon him, his big sister.
I see the child engaging me through adult eyes, pleased.
Small talk persists as HE looks on, growing ever impatient.

At length, caught in my own trap, I lead him into the abyss,
The sickle awaits, lurching on the shelves, just as Dyer-Bolique planned.

Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
A slit to the throat, gaping wound,
His head tips back, cries stifled,
Blood pours relentlessly,
Guilt enshrouds.

Mind’s eye opens to the image of his demise,
The child, not the man, adoring,
Unable to comprehend,
Unaware of my ego,
Guilt enshrouds.

Dyer-Bolique redirects my dear brother, quick decoy,
And surreptitiously forces the sickle in my hand.
Dyer-Bolique smirks with utmost cruelty,
Aroused by owning the winning hand.

Ice flows through my veins, and steams,
Conflict causes a quivering,
Sickle drops,
He wins.

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