Succumb

as the tide of years

rubs the sand

against the bastion

of your pride

 

your certainty

your inviolate truths

as you succumb

again and again

 

as you choose

face over courage

arrogance over humility

as the very sap drains from you

 

secure in your safety

as the cotton wool familiars

bed downy nights with you

and those certain dawns

 

when the calendar

of your days

grows ever shorter

and even the sand, runs out

 

that bastion can join you

in your box

your succubus, your incubus

and mate for all eternity

 

and when you pass

and see them both

nestled there;

will your Soul cry?