One out of a crowd,
One from a field of the innocent’s magistrate.
Why pluck such an innocent rose?
Why not saver its beauty out of garden?
To accept is to forgive.
To forgive is to injure the genuine.
He cannot forgive her for his pain,
He will not let it go untold.
He knows of this pain,
She is incoherent of her crime.
He blames her for his torment,
And the innumeral amounts of un-flourished dreams.
She has clogged the very crevasses of his mind,
And saturated his pores with corrupted salts.
His mind is a-fogged and half-twisted in vain,
And cannot function without seeing her again.
So now he unsheathes his sword, a dagger of might,
And conceals it beneath the tail of his shirt.
He plays inconspicuous to those he’s around,
And follows her indefinitely until she’s alone.
She walks straight past the doors of many,
And is unaware of the approaching tyranny.
She is grabbed by her shoulder and flung halfway
around,
And stares into the face of the ill-stricken man.
He pauses awhile and contemplates his next move,
All the time she being lost in the groove.
He decides to carry through and so thus draws his
sword,
And pierces the soul of her once disdainful gourd.
She gasps in surprise,
And cries out in demise,
As her life slips away before her eyes,
A victim of an unfavorable compromise.
He picks her up and carries her,
Through darkened alley street and way,
Back to his humble palace of armory and knives,
Back to wed her among past wives.