The women you’ve beaten

A poem to the low lifes

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

The sun will rise
I hope you don’t,
Malignant breath
Spreads your decay.

Deceit runs black
Beneath your skin,
Your soul is flotsam
On putrid currents.

May the women you’ve beaten
Scratch out your eyes,
May your blood reimburse
The men you have robbed.

My cup will run over
When you are no more,
To welcome each day
I will dance on your grave.