Merciel

His ascent from the table, he spread the expanse of his smile–
the definition of love stitched on the seams of his heart
now flowed along the fringe of the canvas to commemorate
the departing pastor for his two-year tenure–a church record.
He soared past the plastic preppies in prey of a particular pearl–
one anointed with a crown of pure gold unlike those of dyes
and lyes–only to snag on an old snare. Her cackle snapped him
to pits among peasants in the hunt of pheasants like him to ruffle.
Her eyes poured emerald oceans with sirens to sink his strut,
punish his insurrection by submerging his sight with the resurrection
of antiquated memories fermented into inebriating emotions–
once frozen, now boiled over the almond scent of her lotion,
over the gleam of her neon green top that glittered her crown
and brightened her teeth–heightened his hunger for the flesh
of young meat. The sensation subdued him, but only for seconds;
he sprung above the towering ego of the small girl–
so limber she nearly tumbled, at a loss by his silence–
and glided to the woman in wait: blonder, bustier, better.