It's Right And Just. Poem by Obrie Writes

Dear hustling wife,
I hereby present the vermin to you.
I've roamed through streets
And to you all I turn.

Those promises I made,
Under the rays
Hot as the Sempaya,
Baking bricks for this haven,
All those promises,
I'll keep none.

The woman I met
Smelled of Western fumes
And not the wood smoke
That followed you.
Her hands,
Running down my chest
Spoke of Merino wool.
The strong heart I had for you,
Perhaps was tired

You'll see none of this,
The haven you died for.
This is no house for you.
Goodness might kill you,
Please stay in the dark.

The doctors say,
I've got the virus,
And I say,
That when you chose
To have it bare
Against my will
You got a share too

I've written to run away,
To break you,
To give you tears at least,
To make it known,
How your good choices
Were absolutely wrong.
It's right and just
To leave and live apart.

© OBRIE WRITES.