Sonnet of the Vintage Woman

I spat your existence as
you hang from her neck.
Then cursed the day you were
used to exchange the void his
absence left. Condemn me
for hatred, not the justice I defend.
For the man that held you before
her, is an enemy I wish to pain.
White won’t mask the bronzed
edges that keep you in bay
and less the soft embrace
you have on her delicate veins.
I’ll make her doubt your comfort,
and split both of your ends.


By: Leo E. Mars

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