Poetic

You’ll bruise

Don’t baby me
Sober leech
Ask me why I don’t have a fresh uptake on life?
This, my retort, is yours expressly:
It’s fresh as the rot my future world festers in
Born of your unyielding sin
Our innings.

Quit the play
Your meagre games of late
Deem yourself a seer
Cannot see past the end of your nose
Then you sever it, don’t spite your face.

And yes
When I have at thee
In part, I have at me.

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