A torture-loosened
tongue I could forgive,
I fear I must
condemn your price-crossed palm.
Their traitors'
gold’s no balm for worthless wounds,
It will not soothe
your ten-a-penny sin.
The poisoned
word has garnered its reward
And paid a guilt
of copper toward my stone.
A flame of rust
has slowly claimed my sword.
The hangman’s
halo holds a silver moon
Strewn with banshee
mouths in coarse lament.
The boatman hails
me from a haunted sail,
Within his sea-carved
caves my cold grave calls.
I swim while
still my breath can drive the wheel.
