La Maison de Dieu

The House of God.

A lightning struck Tower,

One with prophetic power -

Frighteningly foreboding,

Of imminent self-loathing.

Drawn from the deck

On her sleepy Saturday night,

At the Salt Quay.

Seeking silent solitude,

Amongst the clamorous quietness

Of drunken chaos,

A space of supposed solitude

Receives her.

Wreckage in the welcome.

Slayed by a stranger.

Serenity starved.

Poetry poached.

Civility encroached

Upon lyrical euphoria –

An invitation to dysphoria

At her Peroni party

For one.

She,

One pint

And tarot,

Ensured that a warm woe

Would be bestow(ed)

Upon her.

The Tower,

A devourer

Of simple delight,

Seeks destruction -

Sad seduction

Into solicitude

Towards a stranger.

Friendliness is simply

Poetic peril.

The Tower

Twisted her happy hour

Into poised petulance;

A card of malevolence.

She went home

To be alone;

To be,

Invisible to the Salt Quay –

And set her cursed soul free.