Blood Upon Your Knife
Like a honey bee –
The sting that irritates me
Is fatal to you.
You say the moon is static, still it spins,
You proffer tales of war in times of peace –
You label me the phantom of the feast
When all your demons dwell within.
And what have I to fear of slander, I
Whose fortunes rest upon my will alone –
Do you believe my pride so fragile, prone
To shattering? You claw at stone.
Disparage me, deride my works, and curse
The day my light beset your dreary life –
But know you this of blood upon your knife:
That you, not I, shall suffer worst.