Why did
I not consider
your feelings
god apparent to me?
Dealing in thought
concealing all that
you know..
So I strike
with cutlass
and wound the air
that you breathe.
Receiving from me
all venom.
Strength in bitterness.
Unreceiving
blows from you.
Unhurt, but hurt
because you do not
punish.
Pain, that need
to cover pain
cries sweetness.
So fight me on
towards my own
destruction.
You do not
disdainfully inflict
because god mighty
you are not there,
but are man.
How care?
Spare me some comfort.
Hurt me.
Strike with cutlass and wound the air... Breathtaking prose Sally. It seemed very Dickensian to me. Excellent piece. Regards. Craig.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Spare me some comfort. Hurt me. What an ending... love it!
Thanks for your interest. Much appreciated. Sall.