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FOR FAYTH

Incarceration is a curse,
A sentence set for life;
Resolved for better or for worse
When I became his wife.

At any stage, with gleeful rage,
He'll toss away my treasure -
Constructing thus a careful cage,
My misery, his pleasure.

With verbal blows, he robs my soul
Of gladness and ambition.
Profanely, he assumes control
And battles my conviction.

In barracks built of brutal words,
Of broken promises and drink,
I shudder with each slamming door
And dance upon the brink.

My flesh, his passion, lures him;
He preys upon the scent.
For, having tasted of my blood,
Desire is never spent.

He pounds the walls and storms the halls
With fury in his breath.
We're bound together, not forever,
Only till our death.

I built a tower for my heart.
The lock contains no key.
Though all the world be shut outside,
The beast cannot reach me.

Enflamed, he roars, and pounds the door;
His violence leaves its mark.
And though he breaks it daily,
He'll never have my heart.

Learn more about this author, Linda Ann Nickerson.
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