To kill a man is a thing
of beauty

Hold me not guilty of

Recall you not the weary

That served you treachery
above the ace

And yet in humming you
served them soup

And sang them sweet melody
till deep sleep

Did you not smile to your
other self?

As if you’d kissed the
gods of self!

To be killed is not a
thing to imagine

Cruel as the rape of a

Knowing now and before but
not the after

Moving away from the world
of laughter

with occasional spills of
blood and pangs of pain,

that cease  after the washing of the stain

To the ends of bends and

To kill you is a thing of

Yields not sense and pays
not fee

Writes me off against

Places me at odds with a

I do not preserve anger
worthy of the act

But shall write you off the
planks of history

If such is the desire of
poets born and gone

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