Spurned
Let your mouth,
Be not my end,
But my shield,
For my wounds have bled enough,
From which your sword spurns.
Here is a hole,
To which you have widened,
Your aim,
Unable to see your crimson sword.
Hasten your steps,
Give me a blow
To which you make my end,
At which I may take great pleasure,
For death is perhaps,
Easier than life.
Settled
Aw,
Here you are.
Ready to stir-
My settled mind.
Disjointed bow,
Slithered tongue,
Uttered vows,
Broken lips,
Fallen to-
The cold floor.
Tis you that stole
The fluttered red,
Which you made
More sweet
Than foul.
Take that which you will,
And leave that which you should.
