The Worst Deaths

The worst deaths,

Are not they which befall us,

When the enemy breaks in,

But the ones we meet,

At the hands of those we love…

The worst betrayals,

Are those we suffer,

Not from the turned-backs of total strangers,

But from those in whose bosoms,

We once sought refuge…

The creeper crawls upon the forest floor,

Dragging its belly for a lifetime,

Seeking but a ray of sun,

Yearning for a chance at life,

Yet the day its tender shoot emerges,

from beneath the thick canopy,

Is the day it will be scorched,

Burnt mercilessly by that solar demon,

Mother sun bears no children…

Don’t you recall?

You will find my son,

That the most painful moments in this life,

Are lived right besides your most loved;

You will learn, dear boy,

That the soft skin of your beloved,

Will cause you greater anguish in this life,

Than the rough hides of a million devils ever will;

The poison of your death,

You won’t find at the tip of a foe’s arrow,

Or the shaft of an adversary’s spear,

The poison of your death, my son,

You will take from the kiss of your beloved…

The dagger of your enemy,

Shall not a drop of your blood claim,

But the tender caresses of your dearest,

Your throat shall slit,

And the blood from your very veins shall drain,

Utterly …. Completely …

The worst deaths…

(Archived with the Lantern Meet of Poets)