Poetry

I dare to blame you for my death, 
For it was your eyes that overlooked me from between the shadows and have focused on the decorations of an altar, 
For it was your ears that missed the layers of my troubled voice and have concentrated on a stranger's sugary whisper, 
For it was your embrace that lost its meaning and has wandered off into warmer arms, 
For it was your words that gained simplicity and hesitation and have been lost in the pit of your stomach, 
For it was the love that enlightened me with a million colors and dissipated the terrors that paralyzed me, that was lost in its course from your breast.
 
I have managed to retain myself from considering my own being as guilty of my end, even when it was I that locked my heart in stillness, 
For it was you who directed your eyes in hatred and lowered my will to the serpent's nest, 
For it was you who heard my plead from between the boiling waves of misery and discarded its echo, 
For it was your fingers that had sealed themselves onto my throat when, in a moment of desperation,  my pride engulfed me and my poisonous tongue betrayed me, 
For it was your teeth that chattered the language of my doom as my knees faltered and my frame scraped along the moist, crimson tiles, 
For it was you who has robbed me of the desire of a plain existence.
 
Yet, I could never banish you to the exterior where traitors are sent, and men are beheaded, 
For it was you who raised me ever since I was a foolish child.