There is no scalpel edge, no well honed word

That cuts more deeply than incisive hate,

That splays the flesh unto its beating core—

There drawing scars to bear to heaven’s gate.

There is no venom that could injure so

Where but a single drop could legions raze;

No piercing eyes to run the very soul

As found within that vicious rapier gaze.

What demon now does your gaunt form possess

Where here I see the skull conform the skin,

Those bony fingers that the mace now grasps

Foul set to bludgeon with your fang gaped grin.

Would I have yet been blessed to see that curse—

Or more to heed, ‘for better or for worse’.