Black Widow

Silver spooned and silver tongued,
with icy, jade eyes, winking at you
in a sunshower’s glare, he was a visceral
threat. He acquired collections,
and hearts, without a weary worry:
crisp investments, salty sentiments,
thunderous dreams. Any withering
fool could see through sinewy pretense.

Unconventional,
inspirational,
unpredictable,
impervious.

He’s a cyclone needing to be lassoed,
barreling through the wilderness
without a care or a bother
to all that he consumes,
like a baby bouncing his way
over scattered toys.

He was fostered to be the spoiled
dashing, charismatic, malevolent
gentleman he had become.
He had a churlish allure,
a je ne sais quoi, a pearly presence,
much like those Tibetan charmers
that tantalize insidious snakes.
It happens, and you are powerless to control
it. You just need to learn to dive, hurl
away, from oncoming locomotives.

He did not intend to be cruel;
it was just the lack of care he possessed,
a surly, pathological byproduct.
Everything simply had been handed
to him so effortlessly. He had become
the ultimate consumer, a sleek cat lapping
silken cream from a pristine, porcelain bowl.

But, he had yet to make acquaintance
with that devilish, cunning woman,
the one with the charcoal hair, and cerulean
eyes , the one with the alabaster
skin that he would imprudently
covet, the one that would trump his ace
transform him, to the point
where he would sacrifice
his sober security and unflappable
swagger that had transported
him from Shreveport to Stockholm
to Shanghai, and then back to San Francisco,
and cast it aside like a indiscreet joker.
He would exhaust all his (mis)fortune.
Shockingly, he would readily welcome
the shrewd risks it would necessitate
to acquire the black widow spinning
in her pedantically, woven web, waiting
for the horsefly that had lost his way.