Titled The Psalmist Creed, emerging poet Asford Psalms’ weekly poetry column consists selected poems from his yet-to-be-released debut collection.

Here is Dark Night:

 

Down my spine.

The above smites.

Down these lines.

The acts rhymes.

 

Clear skies, lost moon.

Last hour in early June.

The day before the dozenth night, no wonder the stars appeared unripe.

But as before, their hearts were right.

Right where they belong, where they both stood strong.

But their minds in a dark night were at bights.

Not on the same plane, so on parallel heights.

 

None dared, none ventured.

Indubitable was out of their context.

Cats in their cupboards- they dight away the purrs with each other’s bottles of milk.

As long as the bottles don’t break and milk wont quail, they dern away their baggage with a hefty quake.

This night as the ones before, pleasures evade and bring the two to a calming state.

 

Damn call! His phone rings and screen blinks- at the wrong side of the bed.

Who could it be?

It is the suspect she phantoms the idea he crosses with in another game.

Oh my! What a shame.

 

Lips which laid in a mine of gold.

Now spat words red, dark and bold.

Like a bulge in a plastic case, the couple now hated each other’s face.

Words flew and hands threw and before they knew, both are standing poles apart like the sky and morning dew.

She was a knight with words, as such, her sword cuts through as a witches hex.

He was a king of silence- he ignored and it sharpened her sword.

 

When he opened his mouth, the words that flew were as sharp as a hexes rue.

She fell to the tiles feeling wrong and used.

She wept and wept- from the bedroom, through the kitchen and to the bathroom.

When she banged the door, the soap flew and fell.

She wept and wept and it touched his heart.

He knew his words will drown her to the last part.

Having a moral epiphany on what he spewed made him walk to the room where she wept.

As she heard the footsteps, she stood and sobbed in first.

Trying the lock and her pale hands failed.

He entered smooth, fast and swift.

She wept and he wept; on his chest and on her shoulders.

He said, as he wept, “love wouldn’t hurt.”

And when he stepped back a bit for it to take effect, before she saw in her eyes, he slipped on the soap- unaware.

He banged his head on the wall, tub and floor.

Love wouldn’t hurt.

Unduly, his got him cursed.

The lifeless body caught her unfair and unsquare.

She fled to check the soundless pulse and before his lifeless corpse- in his blood, she trips and falls.

Face first.

 

What’s next?

They both were dead.

How cruel did their love story end?

This night was a dark curse.

 

 

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