by Nick Gisburne
The price for seven footsteps, gone astray
Is torment, in a cellar, in the dark
His trap, along this twisted, winding way
Is baited with a casual remark
With silver-tongued mundanity, the speech
Discretely lures a woman from her path
A prize, a pick, a sweet, delicious peach
An object of distaste, repulsion, wrath
He bathes her in a litany of hate
A sermon, steeped in bitterness and guilt
A monologue of overwhelming weight
To justify the misery he built
She hears the seven footsteps at the door
And cowers on the stinking, filthy floor
