I wish my words would gnash like knife
to see the squirt of blood, in hateful strife
upon my wounded enemy,
I would seek my victory
to see him cower down
like the way he had me torn?
What victory would that be
That turns ashen, with remorse that sets in me
To avenge the hurt, the hate, the pain,
The seething anger, the battle fought tooth & nail
The weak that writhes out, pale
It’s his defeat drumming on my ears,
as i weary out, with those spears
Was it not the weakling in me,
To have been wrested
By an inkling of an enemy?
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