I Died
As blood was drawn, the rills of scarlet dripped
to fill the calamus with crimson brine,
and from the wound, I penned each fated line
in livid verse that bled to tortured script.
The blood turned black as letters spilled in rage
and with each word I begged this ire to still,
but anguished tears imbued the feathered quill
as bitter prose congealed upon the page.
Though memories indulged with sweet delight,
your indiscretions tempered not with time.
When selfish want consents to carnal sin,
the heart that breaks will fester in despite.
And as my blood ran dry in sanguine rhyme,
the passion ceased and thus, I died within.
4-8-23
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2023
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