She withdrew her blade,
Her brand made of wedding silver,
And fled the scene,
The wound she left grew septic,
Bereft of warm feelings,
A pus-filled hole in my chest,
Where my killing jar once lay,
My insectoid heart,
It left me in septic shock,
Dying on the bed in tears and bile,
Her leaving may instigate my passing,
This wound is infected,
And no new fair hand has granted me antiseptic,
Nor sewn my heart together anew.

  1. Love the second last line. We do look for love’s “antiseptic” when the heart suffers loss.

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