As sure as Shinobi swings his blade,
this circumstance to which you're enslaved
will cost the loss of those accosted
in your ill fated persistence.
The swan is only red
after it has bled.
Harsh weather
formed the feathers
in the bed the Maiden lays in.
Ways and weird angles
astray as limbs dangle
over puddles thicker than origin.
Predicament sworn to sin
committed in repetition.
Never cared to listen;
even through the chaste
as if deliberate actions are not anchors
that make it easy for your past
to finally reach out and tarnish.
That coat you claim as varnish
no more than a bright target
in the dark for one to see.
You are nothing because of me.
The swan is only red
when it is severed from its head.
Lifelong fondness and familiarity
can barely now be called an acquaintance.
The simplistic similarity
is the charity you will be denied.
Thought you knew when to hide
and when to lunge your beak.
That silence from whence you speak
sprung the first leak from your veins
to impart chains of damnation.
You will enjoy no liberation
while wrung between knuckle and fist.
You may bob to dodge
but round the wrist
your neck will lap
until the snap.
Fitting, perhaps.
Thought you'd respond to the slaps
that came after forewarning.
Conflict your anointing
and consequence your bread from Heaven
you run the risk of choking on.
Your grace? Your wiles?
Replaced by trials.
Would smile and used to sing awhile
but now,
no words were said.
Ruby ripples instead
no more luminous than rust on coral.
Air once fresh and floral
closer crept now to the fowl stench
and how drenched were you before
the ocean floor was yours instead?
The last of comfort in your dread
spent in the dirt near river beds.
Your life proclaimed what was said:
The swan is only red
after it is dead.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
after it has bled.
Harsh weather
formed the feathers
in the bed the Maiden lays in.
Ways and weird angles
astray as limbs dangle
over puddles thicker than origin.
Predicament sworn to sin
committed in repetition.
Never cared to listen;
even through the chaste
as if deliberate actions are not anchors
that make it easy for your past
to finally reach out and tarnish.
That coat you claim as varnish
no more than a bright target
in the dark for one to see.
You are nothing because of me.
The swan is only red
when it is severed from its head.
Lifelong fondness and familiarity
can barely now be called an acquaintance.
The simplistic similarity
is the charity you will be denied.
Thought you knew when to hide
and when to lunge your beak.
That silence from whence you speak
sprung the first leak from your veins
to impart chains of damnation.
You will enjoy no liberation
while wrung between knuckle and fist.
You may bob to dodge
but round the wrist
your neck will lap
until the snap.
Fitting, perhaps.
Thought you'd respond to the slaps
that came after forewarning.
Conflict your anointing
and consequence your bread from Heaven
you run the risk of choking on.
Your grace? Your wiles?
Replaced by trials.
Would smile and used to sing awhile
but now,
no words were said.
Ruby ripples instead
no more luminous than rust on coral.
Air once fresh and floral
closer crept now to the fowl stench
and how drenched were you before
the ocean floor was yours instead?
The last of comfort in your dread
spent in the dirt near river beds.
Your life proclaimed what was said:
The swan is only red
after it is dead.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
