Unlucky Poem #13 (2023 Version) Poem by Michael Farrell

The fire burning within,
of a once romanticized night.
The machete now lies in my palm.
The glistening of oozing red,
slick as the night's rain,
Only to wash away,
the sin.
The hour resides, the cold shower,
to cleanse the heart,
and it sits on my shelf.
Her heart and the hand,
the one I held,
belongs to her no more.
The love,
gone,
and replaced with guilt.
The eyes, the ones I own, peer down.
The machete, now slick with my blood,
the sin, of which I am.