Musing

The bulge in his ego illuminated the parlor... the growl of possession wading along the tiled floors.
The moment shivered and sputtered the words of musing.
He'd live to kill the dance of her eyes.
But a knife to cradle in blood and wasting.
The slow spill of lies.
Snickering supported the mood... the hour...
Last calls are when we take home what sober wouldn't want.
Drink up deary....
Bitches are built to destroy.