“It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage...”
Robert Frost

Passion stalked the night,
Seething, relentless,
Potent as the lightning
Over Maracaibo,
Held tightly in check
By only the thinnest
Of threads.
Rage bubbled
Just beneath the surface
As he remembered
Her anguished expression
The moment before
Her father slammed
The door in his face.
She was past the age
Of consent, but
The old man was ruthless
In using her guilt
To entrap her,
Constantly reminding her
He would not be
In the shape he was in,
Her mother would not
Be dead,
Had it not been
For her carelessness.
Yet
She had made her bid
For freedom,
Meeting her lover
At the door
With an overnight bag
In hand,
Ready to escape,
Ready to leave
This old life,
Ready to embrace
A future free
Of bitterness
And pain.
But the old man,
His eyes filled
With malice,
Had pulled her back,
Swearing he'd kill himself
If she left him,
Further adding to
The guilt she already bore,
And she had hesitated
Too long.
Now the man with whom
She would had gone
Paced
In angry despair.
Common sense would say
He should walk away,
But he had loved her too long
To forsake her
Knowing he was
Her only hope
Of an unnecessary
Redemption,
That he was
Her only hope
At all.

c. 2025