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.