Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Out on Highway 89

It had been fair weather, routine,
things had never been better, or so it seemed.

Somehow we knew something was wrong,
we all knew, the feeling lay thick in the air.

Yet who could say what was hidden behind curtains,
folds of virginal skin so fair?

Therein burned the flame,
the flame of desire, set ablaze from unholy lust.

When we visited her she was quiet withdrawn,
softly cleaning the home she had trust.

A crime had occurred,
restitution to be paid, out on Highway 89 that day.

Brother and sister there in the back,
and he in the front drove away.

Somehow it happened,
the vengeance for sin, somehow.

Hidden in the shadows,
restitution was made for now.

He fell, burning,
his desire unquenched.

She standing,
the tension unclenched.

He, her brother
devoted though insane.

Out on highway 89,
can we say who to blame?

The brother, the martyr, or unholy flame
whatever the cause' the effect was the same.