Doth you malign me
with virtuous intent
your design upon me
is a malignant bent
If, after being bound
by silver motes of rain
that soaked not unto my skin
but which quenched the fire
that I writhed upon in pain
had I ripped you from beneath
my own eager breast, you surely
would not rest but proudly
would have died, alone, on a street
but would you have found rest?
Dare not you parlay with me!
I still have eyes, a mind, a soul
you see. As adamantly that you
try to leap from my body to be
independent, you bleed, fresh,
from my flesh.
Unable to breath outside my body
So hush and do not fash so
Hold your peace and pray
I am disinclined to end it this day
just so you know