It wasn't the cold bullet
That pierced my heart,
Or the fact that you shot it;
It wasn't the motive,
The madness or the mart,
Whence you'd once bought it.
Many a blood drop had I spilled,
To see you spill but none.
Many a mean soul had I killed,
If fate cruelly had some fun.
It was none of these I died from,
None had potency, quite none ;
If only I'd heard the wise, some,
If only you weren't the one
...
No comments:
Post a Comment