The Spiteful Wife
The Assassin:
What steel makes death but a prick
How sharp the blade to not shimmer red
Upon my dagger thy life runneth quick
To mingle in the river of the dead
A tawdry life, a bitter'd wife
An scant a copper more
How could a woman like me
Ignore her plea
To be the death of you
And your whore
But nigh is the time to make sense of the rhyme
A woman’s wrath is no soft poet
I’ve cleaned my blade in the bed they’ve made
And will be gone before the guards know it
The Wife:
The deed is done and in the light of the sun
I am haunted by both their shadows
Remembering the glee when he first loved me
As we roll in blossomed meadows
As for her, I cannot hate anymore
For all she had was her beauty
No husband, no Man, no future plan
No sense of wifely duty
She was more alone than I had grown
And longed for a gentle man
To not be the slander of men of ill manner
And but a queen upon her throne
To be seen for her heart and not as town tart
And in my coolness if I was not so mean
Maybe their flame never kindle and start
Maybe I could have foreseen
But I sit at his grave and recall a time
Where we loved each other and life
Now I will never forget my crime
Of being a spiteful wife
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment