In Deed

The clatter of your heels fills
The polished halls of power,
Your hair a helmet,
Your words a spear.
The gleam of your buttons,
The white of your pearls,
A dazzling breastplate,
An aegis to petrify
Objections.

You are legion.

But the wind is rising.

The fog of your Chanel
No longer masks
The scent of your treachery,
The decay of your morality,
The rot in a breast
Which would suckle Satan
For a seat at the table.
A place is laid for you,
Indeed.

For Evelyn Rysdyk

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