On The Wrong Side Of Bad Intentions Poem by Seamus O' Brian

When I dipped my pen into this black ink
I found leaking from your heart,
It tinged my poetry with the flavor
Of that dreaded rim of night
Which crawls over those who shuffle about
Rummaging in the rubble of an earthquake,
Bitter as the smoky sound of crackling
That remains in the forest glade
Even after fiery winds have burnt past.
Like the Stygian curse that breathed
You into the chambers of my heart
Grinding the tectonics of my life to a halt.

What black coach trundles the hearse
That bears the rotten intentions of
Your grim plan into the meadows
Of our lives? This is no graveyard
Here, but still you insist now
Upon laying these corpses about,
The trust and compassion of your victims
Scattered around for the carrion fowls
And stoats to plunder. As you crawl about
In the branches above, knowing nothing
But to weave, and to weave and to weave
And I wonder as I lie here, knowing only
The hissing of thread upon thread,
Do you smile as you exhume the vitality
Of your prey, one soul at a time?

And here is good Jude, bearing flecks
Of concern in his eye, a naked blade
In his hand, wondering
"What do you here in this foul part of town?
Have ye no sword, there are villains about? "
"Just my pen, good sir, and near out of ink,
Yet before we depart, this one—"