Apples and Dead men

 I was walking in the cold frosted air of a dream one night counting my breath in the air. An angelic face with porcelain skin, hair bathing in artificial light smiled a tempting smile. She curved her perfect lips and let the words escape her ashen mouth calling forward what every man wished to hear.  She was choking on desire, drunk of pheromones as she took the form of a friend. I could hear the devils hoof prints approaching my flank as I peered deep in to her deep blue desire filled eyes. “Come with me, live a little” she said in her masked fallen tone piquing at the hidden destruction. I could feel the sulfur burning from my skin before I could take a single step towards or turned to run. “Do flawed men hesitate” I asked myself, looking for the strength for what must be done. An apple a day bars the world from the garden and I war with myself assessing fruit.  My fallen friend writes a blank check dipped in passion, tucking it in my breast pocket and I’m certain that my death is at hand. For two days blood boiled and raced, as I weighed the cost of integrity and hypocrisy. I spit sparks of light out of my mouth on the third night beckoning to one beyond me to return me to the waking world of men. Let me walk once again in clearly defined lines as I am too weak for this place of open graved throats and dirty lies. God woke me from that slumbering dream of temptation and life and death. I praised him for the distance, looking down at the dirt on my hands and open invitation in my back pocket. It sometimes takes two days to kill a man that never dies nor stays buried.