I catch my breath,
though everyone else seems oblivious
that the air is acrid,
the night charged
swirling and dangerous.
I pray you won’t notice me,
and I would make some other pact
to sell my soul, because
if you look up,
I am gone, done for, bedevilled,
And if you smile that deliciously wicked smile
of promise I could never resist,
I’ll have no escape,
and the kind of sweet hell I dream of,
will possess me once again.
©Paul Vincent Cannon