The Wounder

Shrapnel built of verb knives cuts veins readily worn on my sleeve.
Dwindled to my last, keeping my eyes down, averting wildly to the back of eyelids.
And it was.....and it was my death of a thousand.

Walking back to the seas of formidable woes.
Clasping loud to the east of wanting to leave.
We can go. We can go to the death of a thousand.

"It's so old, he is lost." said the wounder of wines.
A sentimental tricked into living the locust.
She is gone.  She has gone with the death of a thousand.

As we kiss, blades slice, leaving parts uncooked.
It's easy to dance with these broken toes.
If a thousand are gone then we're one in a million.
Fall together in love, drinking in the pavilion.
We are sworn, sworn to wrap arms and hold tightly.
Breach the mess, you can tear up, I can easily drown you.
Evil swung, I tripped, made it look like a knockdown.
In the car, we sleep, freezing black to your toes.
Your pure. Yet, no purer to the wounder.