From the thousand wounds within my heart
In the form of ink from your last letter
You stabbed me in the eyes
With your poison pen
The pen is mightier than the sword
I see by your rapier words
In your misplaced wrath
You grasped the snath
And laid me low like leaves of grass
And that's wit bitch, not Whitman
Not sealed with a kiss?
Or with the kiss of death perhaps?