Edge Of A Sword Poem by Mitta Xinindlu

I have long sensed that you're an edge of a sword.
In halve you managed to pierce me with taps and words.
Today those words have turned into a session of stabbing.
You cut me deep with your point, my spine is flapping.

Who knew that you'd burn into an anatomy of a dagger?
To you both the blade and the pommel are the same in danger.
Even the peen block is equally harmful too.
And the guard and the grip form an army of tools.
 
So, I fall bleeding from your thrust;
Oh! With my body full of bruises and cuts.
But only the soil has an interest to lick these wounds
For my blood giveth commitment and feeds it life in full.

How can a battle of love turn into an unending war?
Bow, allow my wailing to cease your cause.
Why torture me whereas even fallen leaves nurture my sores
And the ground quenches its thirst through my peeled pores?

Woe to your love.
It touches my trauma with soiled gloves.