At times his journey seemed like a disease, rather than a pursuit. Typically, he chose libation as an out, but it only fueled things; the lust seeping from his pours when the fuel hit his bloodstream. He was always charming, for as far back as anyone could remember, yet there was a secret history; a curse. The attention both feeding, and in the end, destroying his very core. Stumbling home night after night, wrecked and lost he would feel the serpent again, its embrace strengthening; tail to mouth.
One day he even stopped into a progressive temple, but he got hung on the length of the skirt worn by the girl who greeted him. The cross resting deep in her cleavage sent him reeling, and running to the nearest tavern. It wasn't to be, like all the other emotional shards left in his wake tell us, now that it's all over. He continued the endless cycle, including mighty rituals that did little to soothe.
And then there was the night that echoes like a schoolyard whisper. He just walked off alone into the night, never to be heard from again. Rumors abound as to his fate, the most circulated tale being that he took a sharp turn into a pub, and through another typical night of debauchery, he was freed, and ultimately, reborn.
© 2011 Lee Greenfeld