The Scorned

The Scorned

I feel your eyes ask mine to say a thing
About the Judas song now fresh and deep
From your own lips, a sign of what might sing
Within my heart, though they have yet to weep.

I sit as stone, and I begin to boil
With rage as you describe the change you feel.
A diff’rent choice is made; I should not spoil
What love renews! Must I rejoice, or kneel?

The things I wish to say or do, unpinned.
I’d crash your face against the wall and let
It bleed as surely as the wound within
My heart now pours out on the pavement wet.

Though Time has pulled this vengeance from my veins,
I’ll die before I let you in again.


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