Gregory Taylor

There was a shine in his eyes
when Rage was home.
Like spring dreams,
his cheeks would rouge.
I did not want to cower
or even dance.
My dreams held a kiss
on his pursed lips.
I would eat the stabs
of dagger tongue
in awe of the delicate flowers
perched around his nose,
where all I could think
was to smell him.
I felt the holes in his hand
when he struck my skull,
his blood was mine
to make my mark
of repentance for him.