The Target

In a love triangle,
I move out of the center
to find a boat.

Locked in a sperm
a messanger becomes a brute.
Who will draw the circle

on the mercy petition?
This was a curse on the bed
which will not go to sleep for a whore.

The stings. Everytime you
open the mouth, you spurt
out the barbs, I walk into fire.

The kill. It was a perfect
landing. Wounds will never
heal. The beach remains dry.