Cup of Red

He sat before me staring at a map almost forbidding
His alabaster fingertips trailing freeways at his bidding
His eyes were black as a starless night, a tornado in their midst
His countenance was unmerciful, something I’d never missed
His essence was as cold to me as when winter comes to stay
He was almost transcendental in a cool, sadistic way
He alone heard a knock at the door, he quickly moved away
He stood there and held his apostrophe in the fading light of day
He remained as light’s diffraction scattered, cast him in its glow
His expression changed abruptly, he looked drawn and so alone
He looked around his home once more, his refuge from his past
His eyes lit on me, ingenious, with a condescending cast
He bade me wait while he took the stairs, though steep, two at a time
He wasn’t organizational, neither his person nor his mind
He still returned in amass of things, a stirrup and a revolver
He smiled as adrenaline filled my veins; I knew my life was over
He laughed and said it was my gift, an affinity for serendipity
He said it was something like my clothes so in vogue they would last for eternity
He drew close to me then with not a noise, the revolver at my head
He smiled with white teeth grown long with desire, and then these words he said:
He told me that he’d waited for this day all of his life
He said he’d make me immortal so that I might be his wife
He dropped the pistol from my head and drank greedily from my veins
He savored then a cup of red . . .and left me there with my bloodstains.