It is late

her tryst timed

coincidental with

back doors

made unlocked

her face veiled

with deceit

indistinguishable from

maidens on journeys

whose hearts can be trusted

in the pitch of night

not so this lurid soul

who's aim it is

to steal passion

while the moon offers up

low light

quietly she makes her way

through alleyways

along the paths marked

to Hell's front gate

without recompense

her arrrival will

not be late

and while she satiates

the foreign taste

of lust's buds

the serpent smiles

slithers down the tree

close to where she is

but should not be