The hot, humid air was still and silent;
No breeze stirred to alleviate the heat;
His breath was fetid as he stalked his prey;
The rage in his eyes was beastial,
His ham-like fists clenched and unclenched,
As though the involuntary movement;
Would still the beast raging inside.

Unaware of the danger that lay ahead;
She, slight of form and soft of voice,
Cooked a meal more fitting a king than swine;
Her angelic grace at odds with the bruises,
The only pain to be seen,
Flashed from her soul to her eyes.

Enter the swine, stomping and snorting;
Enter the angel, gentle footsteps approach,
His rage boils into seething froth;
Her eyes flash in fear and remembered pain,
He screams and yells and stomps about,
She whimpers and moves in graceless redoubt.

He swings and he misses; his rage boils over,
He stalks his silent prey; reveling in her fear,
And crushes her frame like an empty can of beer,
His fists connect again and again;
The angel has no strenghth left within,
He breaths heavily as he shouts and curses,
She shrinks and cowers as his rage turns murderous,
Blood pours from the cuts on to the floor,
She slips in to blissful rest as he walks away,
Today was her last day.

Christina Spencer
©2000