Mutiny

 
In her grip, tightly wound like the vines that wracked her brain,
a lonely fellow - but by no means a loner - who sat and watched.
He pushed against the fingers and sipped gin,
the weakness of his one hand
unapparent, and he was sometimes tempted to resign to his fate,
let the wrinkles envelop his face, snuff him out mid-sip.

And in the winter it all smelled like antifreeze, but he froze
just the same, buried in warmth and drowning in the ice that
populated it. No shovels for this blizzard,
just lies and lukewarm cocoa
fresh from the living room table - all done in spite, or hatred
for the finish and it's smooth, caustic reverberation.

When it thawed he felt her grip loosen, capped the alcohol and,
swallowing, prayed for the motion and the violence, like before.
She had sinned for it all, draped herself in it,
and now the weakness in her
bled out, soaked him - and he was glad to feel it, know the sign,
and know that at last, it would all be the way it was.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Foo Fighters, Breakout