she dipped the quill
deep in her vein
and on her breast
she wrote
in scarlet
a name
that was her poetry
and her undoing

I hear a melody in my head,
A song, and poem with an end.
The end is near as I command.
Left to be read by the living soon to be undead.
My poem,
Oh my song leads only to rotting flesh.
As my word are venom to your bread.
There no meaning just the ramblings of a mad person.
I am so mad, so tired, I sometimes seek death.
My heart shows no ache to the blind,
My voice shows no fear to the deaf,
My trust shows none to the shallow.
For my words are not a peace offering.
No, just the shovel.

The shovel for your grave.
Though I won’t dig,
But you will.
I did not undue you, but I began your undoing.