*Feeling Gravity's Pull*

He's a dangerous man, that one.

Handsome face, lines that reflect
  the cleanest grace.
The subtle curve of his mouth softens into 
  an imperceptible smile when he is content.

He is a man of stature, a presence
 that can be felt like turning your back to the sun.
He walks with easy grace, and the rainwater pools in his footsteps.
You would never know that he's the devil's son, 
  but for his eyes--something there that
   burns so cold;
 the inner well of his heart that pools up behind his gaze--
  some crystal ocean, its source river flowing straight
   from the backwaters of hell.

He is offering you his hand;
 his voice the voice of a man--
  potent and smooth like
  amber colored whiskey
  on a slow summer night,
His hand the pale hand of death.

He can pull you in like the
night pulls in the sun.
 

RunFoxRun@aol.com